As the Starling Says - Volumes One & Two
by EmilyD.1113
Summary: Louisa Daly comes to London from Ireland at twenty years old. She takes a job at the Red Light Reader's restaurant, and all is well until restlessness kicks in. She makes the acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes, a man markedly different after two years running alone. Redemption, mystery, forgiveness and love are afoot. Looong chapters, sorry haha (also, non-bbc plot after season 2)
1. Making Introductions

Summary: Louisa Daly moves to London to attend school, and as someone willing to always look at the bright side of things, she settles in to her new life happily and peacefully. It isn't long, however, before she begins to question what she wants out of life, whether the actions she's taken have led closer or farther away from the world she'd always pictured creating for herself.

Sherlock Holmes has returned after two long, solitary years spent weeding out the cancer Moriarty had spread across the globe. Everything seems straightforward, easy to collapse back into, but it isn't until he makes a startling acquaintance with an enigmatic waitress that he begins to confront the revelations he'd been forced to make while presumably dead.

This is a story, about so much more than love. Here is redemption, sought after by those who never fully realised they needed it; forgiveness, to be given by those who convinced themselves they'd already forgiven. Here are secrets to be found out, mysteries to be solved.

*Takes place after Season 2. Some of the timeline may change to adapt to the plot I have in my head, and a few key places in this story are based loosely off of actual places in London. I've fictionalised them to make the plot tie up nicely.

* * *

 **As The Starling Says Volume One**

 **Chapter One**

During the waning days of March, 2013, a new restaurant took root on Northumberland Street, competing with the tapas joint across the way. Its gimmick was that it sold books, and there was a bar to go along with the kitchen. The menus were tasteful, the place settings unique. The rafters which hung above the main dining area were exposed, and the bricks of the wall were exposed, which seemed to be a popular theme the owner had noticed catching on.

The books the place offered were meant to be chosen regularly every quarter, and they were relatively sparing in quantity, reaching numbers large enough only to fill three ceiling-length bookshelves that lined up against the far wall, beyond a comfortable set-up of armchairs and end tables arranged over a patterned rug. The bookshelves were of a healthy width, so that multiple copies of each book could be kept at once, and every title had gone through a rigorous selection process before it could earn its place.

The idea was that the books should become the loud trademark of the Red Light Reader's Restaurant, and within two weeks of its opening, they had; the low selection, contrasted against the wide array of genres, somehow made diners think the books were all that more interesting and worthwhile, and for the people who went there solely for the books, it helped a great deal that any one of them might also fully expect a perfect specimen of halibut to come out of the kitchen once the dinner menu opened. Even members of the senior community could find it in themselves to admit that the Red Light was not so bad, despite its clumsy name and obvious cry to the younger generation with all its modern appeal. The majority of the patrons who showed up were young, but the studious feel of the restaurant kept them fairly quiet.

And perhaps that was because the young people in the city were craving some place to go with the sensations the Red Light was so willing to offer; it was well-decorated, the music was tasteful and modern, yet altogether so far from distracting that it was impossible for one not to want to be engaged within its walls. Though good literature was so seldom enjoyed in these newer days (impressive works of writing being read by people who only wanted to be impressive themselves), being smart was so unequivocally in at this point as well. People wanted to be consumed with things that were cool, and the Red Light was able to trick most of its visitors into thinking it was cool. That was something Laurence Stimple, in the role of our lucky owner, was able to be happy about. He could, in all his optimism, like that people enjoyed what he had to offer to them, even it was on a less substantial level than would have been ideal.

In short, one could easily walk into the Red Light and find a teenaged boy reading The Shining not ten feet from and eighty year old man endeavoring to enjoy his roast chicken. It appealed to anyone that wanted a little entertaining repose, but to others - Miss Louisa Daly in particular - it was something out of a reasonable, well-rounded fairy tale.

At the time Louisa blew through the doors – twenty years old, straight out of Athlone, Ireland - the Red Light was still in its infancy, the start of July marking its third month of open business. She'd never been anywhere out of Ireland, had in fact only even ventured into the North once in her life on a brief and uneventful trip to the Causeway Coast. London, that great dreary city, was her first real taste of the world, and it handed her the Red Light after only an hour of searching for work she found she could tolerate. She had hardly shaken hands with the owner before she decided that the place would do well.

As new as he was to actually practicing business (having dedicated most of his adult life up until now studying the subject almost obsessively), Laurence had a very concrete view on how he wanted to execute his dreams. One of the beliefs he consequently subscribed to was that staff persona could either greatly increase or degrade the value of any establishment. Learning that Miss Daly was intended for Goldsmiths, under the study of Creative and Life Writing was more than enough to make him like her, but more than that, she'd earned his instant respect by the way he could practically read her work ethic in the enthusiasm of her eyes and the determined set of her delicate jaw.

He hired her on the spot.

To make all the seams hug together perfectly, Louisa took to Laurence as quickly as he had done for her; thought it was hardly the most prominent reason to like him, it didn't hurt that Laurence had been the means to offer her a job that was practically made for her, with its flexible hours and quietly contented impression. And though the Red Light was clearly an easy business to be proud of, after a half-hour of knowing him Louisa could tell that Laurence was proud of his place for all the right reasons. She was the sort of person who found a job to keep it, and circumstances at the Red Light were perfect for that sort of standard. She could easily see herself working here for as long as she remained in London, striving for her degree.

If employees were truly reflections of their employer, then Laurence Stimple had built himself quite a resume. He had a bartender who was adept as well as good-looking, and his wait staff had the chops to deal with consistent stress with a smile, excepting a certain highly-sensitive waitress, whom he preferred to overlook. The team in the kitchen got to be cross sometimes, snapping at moments of peaked tension, but then, kitchen teams were usually like that – probably due to all the heat.

All in all, it was an environment that was all but effortless to acclimate to, and Louisa was permitted to slip into her new job in the same way she slipped into everything else: calmly, happily, and ready to be busy.

In those early days, summer had begun to hit its highest point of ascent, and the sun that was supposedly rarely heard of in that city was persistently present in the sky. If it hadn't been so hot, perhaps she wouldn't have been so nervous, but the glare of the sun has a way of making everything frightfully sharp and hazy all at once. Granted, the nerves hardly lasted more than a day, simmering down once she found her flat and acquired her job, but when she'd first stepped out of the cab in the centre of London proper, the apprehension was a steady boil in her belly.

London, England was a place she once fancied she would never choose to live in, had always thought of it as somewhere she would only visit if she ever had to (writers had to travel, didn't they? Or else they'd have to perfect their researching skills). From the way her parents had spoken of it, London was little more than a hovel of quick-witted insufferables, a great-cog machine which spat out the progression of moral decline. Having spent two miserable years as unwilling residents of a flat near the Canary Wharf while Mr Donal Daly was still in trading, her parents considered themselves expert witnesses to the moral turmoil the city manufactured, and though Louisa tried to reserve her own judgement for such things regarding the world, she was forced to admit that their occasional diagnoses of London's ailment had coloured her perception of the place. Distrust had been etched through her every moment.

Yet, even so, London had seemed to open up and close her well in, happy to have her; she had searched for possible living spaces before her trip, and what began as a rather long list had been narrowed down to six situations that were most ideal in regards to proximity from Goldsmith's as well as from London's busiest districts, where she hoped to (and succeeded in) finding work. That initial day she'd planned on spending the first half of daylight searching for the locations; she preferred to go on foot, despite the nervousness, so that she might gain a quicker understanding of how to navigate those intimidating street systems. She wanted to have a good look at all the places.

However, as it happened, the hour had barely struck noon before she signed the lease agreement for a 133b on Pelcourt Street, which was an estimated ten minutes' bike ride from the Goldsmiths at King's College. It was one of five listings that her brother had emailed to her (the only one that made it on her list – and, to lay all the facts out, those listings were the sole reply she'd received to her own email sent to him, informing him of her intended migration to the Kingdom), and it lay in a building owned by a couple living somewhere in Exeter, managed by an elderly man named Mr Keane, who was all smiles and tottering warmth. The apartments were uncommonly spacious, she knew, considering the startlingly low rent, and the neighbourhood was one that even her parents couldn't have sneezed at.

All of this – the flat, the job, the classes to look forward to in the Fall – was instrumental in ridding Louisa of her trepidation towards London within such a short period of time. Then, once the initial week of her move had worn away, she found that she was rather sorry for not welcoming the city as warmly as it had welcomed her.

She made fast friends at the Red Light and easy money, learning quickly that most of the tables she waited on proved to be more generous in their tips than she would have thought plausible for big-city dwellers. The people she worked with were enough like her in manner and temperament that it was often nice to be at work, especially because her shifts at the restaurant would be the only daily thing to be done until her classes began.

There wasn't much turn-over in the restaurant staff, however. The few waitresses or line cooks that left and were replaced were usually the sort who could hardly bother to come in on time, let alone participate in any actual work when they got there, so it wasn't as if Louisa ever felt as though she missed any of their illuminating company.

But still, the lack of new faces to be added to her list of consistent acquaintance was just obvious enough to bother her; she saw new faces every day, to be sure, but they were in the form of people to be taken care of, and there is a vast difference between a common customer and a coworker. While her easy smile and affable manners were disarming and appreciated by anyone who met her, Louisa was self-aware enough to realise she was the sort of person that one had to get to know before one could make up their mind as to whether or not they wanted to have her as a friend; and there just wasn't that kind of time when someone was sitting down for a meal. Plus, people have the unfortunate tendency to look straight through a waitress, even whilst laughing at one of her jokes.

She went places, of course. She went out with Maggie, a waitress who had trained her (though, trained is a word applied loosely in this instance) during her first week at the Red Light, and who was incidentally a fairly good story-teller; but neither girl was equal to the task of introducing themselves to strangers, without an organic reason for doing so. Louisa in particular was not at all a bad conversationalist; she could ask well-thought questions about any subject presented to her, but the moment she was asked a question herself, she often got tangled in her responses, wanting to make all her points at once and always having several points to make.

Ten weeks passed and the Earth gained some much needed distance from the sun. The good thing about England was that the summer seemed to die quickly and painlessly, the nights growing cold by the early dawn of September. The hot days gave the occasional stutter in their throes of decease, but it was easy to see the end for anyone who was tired of the warmth. The fourteenth of September would be the last Louisa remembered as being a truly bright day in the year of 2013.

She stepped outside to begin her bike ride to the Red Light, and immediately elected for a cab the moment the humidity worked its way round the collar of her snug black button-down. During the ride she'd even succumbed to the temptation of removing that shirt completely, the air-conditioning in the car not cutting through the haze well enough. As she let herself into the restaurant wearing only her black vest, she earned herself a few open, unabashed stares from a table of obvious corporate bonies having lunch near the kitchen.

Louisa resisted the urge to stop and give them her crazy eyes until they looked away, instead continuing through the swinging doors into the server's alley.

Henry, the chef who was positively revered by Laurence for the way he could make his late grandmother's bouillabaisse (the only French dish Laurence had ever been able to bring himself to like – he was strictly a meat-and-potatoes sort of man), popped his head under the service window to see her.

"Bit slow today, Lou," he announced. "Get ready for a long one, eh?"

"We're always slow on Mondays." She reminded him, pulling her uniform shirt from her messenger bag and doing her best to shake out the wrinkles she'd created. "I've come prepared."

She pulled out her book of Sudoku puzzles and stepped up to slide it across the metallic ledge of the hot-counter, hating how stifling the air instantly became around her now her shirt was back to constricting her throat.

"Take as many as you like," she told him. "Just make clean tears. You know the technique by now."

"I don't know why I don't just buy a set of these for myself." He said, flipping to the back of the little book for the harder puzzles. "Or buy one of those electronic ones. You know some have got hundreds of thousands of different puzzles?"

"You never do because you're forgetful." She responded, reluctantly adjusting the cuffs of her shirt and tying on her yellow apron. "And you shouldn't buy an electronic one, Henry. That cheapens the experience."

"Cheap is the idea I'm going for," he smiled at her. "Someone like you could probably save at least twenty quid a month buying in bulk, so to speak"

"The entertainment is worth twenty quid. And while I see your point I still insist you can't buy one for yourself." She arranged her pens along the left pocket of her apron and opened her ticket book to tear out the used pages.

Starting from scratch again, another day torn away.

She paused, hand stilled from balling the written tickets up and throwing them into the nearby bin. Something about that thought was odd, made her wonder why she should have it. It was a moment before she realised Henry had asked her something; she cleared away the rubble in her vision.

"I missed that," she said, and he chuckled.

"I wondered why you won't allow me to buy something so useful."

"Oh," she sighed and nodded, "because if you do then I won't have any idea what to get you for Christmas."

"Gift cards never hurt," he suggested, and she smiled, absently wondering why he wouldn't shave his beard, when he would probably look much better without it.

As he passed the book back to her, the swinging doors which led from the dining room were flung open to admit Maggie, toting a garlic filet and a disgruntled, slightly embarrassed expression. A runner bean hopped and rolled from the plate as she let it fall onto the hot-counter.

"Fetch Willy for me, will you?" She asked Henry, who looked immediately nervous. There was a reason for it: Willy was the self-proclaimed "grill-master" of the kitchen, who never took kindly to food he made being sent back.

Louisa dawdled to the nearest terminal to punch-in, saying, "Whoever it is that's got you looking like that, ignore them. I mean, be polite, but internally ignore them. They are beneath you, Margaret, and they probably lead a small life."

Maggie smiled half-heartedly, but then she was back to glum as she said, "He's a prick. Says he didn't even order the steak, which he did."

"Let's kill him, shall we?" Louisa responded, and that got Maggie to laugh.

"You'll have to be the muscle." She carried on the joke. "I don't have it in me for murder, I'm afraid."

Maggie turned to the window as Will appeared beyond it and, as predicted, he was not happy.

"I ain' cookin' it again." He insisted, his meaty neck already flushing dully.

"You won't have to." Maggie told him, not yet at the point of irritation to which only Willy could ever bring her. "I'm only giving it to you so you can put it in the waste bin and log it for Larry. The man wants a sandwich now."

He pointed at the steak with one bloated finger. "Tha's a good bit o' meat on this plate. I won' go puttin' it in no waste."

"Then eat it yourself Willy, but still the sandwich has to be made." Louisa chimed in, wanting to impede any verbal fight that might break out if they continued any longer; rows between Maggie and Willy typically ended with Maggie in hysterical tears, Willy taking a break from the line for a 'quick puff' and staying away for nearly an hour, and Laurence dashing between the two, trying to rectify and order and console all at once.

Willy's mouth worked in silent indignation, obviously feeling put-upon, but in the end he snatched the plate from the counter and bumbled towards the back of the kitchen. If he had had to make the dish all over again, the process would have been a lot more trying.

Henry volunteered to make the new order, and Maggie recited it to him as Louisa leant through the kitchen doors to signal to the hostess, Emily, that she was ready to take tables.

"Turkey club, served on a baguette – we do have baguettes…?" she trailed into the question and Henry nodded patiently. "Right then, on the baguette, not the wheat bread. Dry, with Swiss cheese, rather than the cheddar, and a single leaf of romaine lettuce, the darker green, the better." As Henry began to lope towards the salad station she added hurriedly, "Extra slice of tomato as well! Did I say dry?"

Louisa wandered back over to the window, about to break out her pen and start one of her puzzles when Maggie decided to strike the conversation up again.

"Speaking of murder," she began. "Did you hear about that man they found dead outside of Ramblers?"

"No, I had no idea about it," Louisa answered, remembering dimly that Ramblers was one of the most lurid of nightclubs. A few weeks ago a server named Judith wobbled into work with a hangover anyone within five feet of her could smell. She'd been at Clapham Junction with a few friends of hers and had stumbled their way to Clapham North, where they found Ramblers – a place where prostitution was the norm and crazy the fashion.

I don't know what we were thinking, partying there, Judy had said. I can tell you I'll never go back.

"Given the location, are you really surprised?" Louisa pointed out.

"Well, no one would be, normally, but it was Antoine Douglas they found." Maggie told her, speaking in her usual animated tones.

"I don't know who that is," Louisa blinked and Maggie gave her an exasperated look.

"Don't you remember going to the Batanaeux Theatre, when they reopened Midsummer Nights'?"

"Yes…?"

"Antoine Douglas was the theatre's director." Maggie said flatly. "How is it you didn't know that?"

"No one ever told me and I never asked." Louisa said matter-of-factly. "Since when have you had such a love of theatre? I thought we only went because your sister didn't want the tickets."

"No, I couldn't care less about that sort of thing," Maggie dismissed this with a flap of her hand. "I actually went because I was hoping to get a look at him. He's always in the papers, you see. The columnists love to hate him, probably because he's like, the head of the high life on the strand. Always mixing with celebrities, getting invited to dinner at the nicest restaurants. And then, he throws these private parties that no one ever talks about, so there's always an article about how Cassandra Morales – or whichever poor pop star they drag into the mess – felt slighted about not getting an invite. He's big local news in London."

"Who knew a theatre director could be so popular?" Louisa mused, and then she asked. "Ramblers can hardly be a place someone like him would end up, don't you think?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what's so odd about it. Maybe he was like Judy, you know, just happened in there by accident." Maggie shrugged. "Or maybe he was looking for something you can only get from somewhere like Ramblers."

"Meth?" Louisa suggested, and they both snorted. "He was a rich man, wasn't he?"

"Of course,"

"A man with money can get whatever he wants from much more tasteful sources than that place." Louisa said. "I doubt he was killed there. Someone must have dumped the body."

"Apparently you're not the only one who thinks that." Maggie craned her neck through the window to get a look at Henry, who shrugged a little helplessly, pointing to the toaster that had the proclivity for taking its sweet time in toasting. "One of the investigators on the scene suggested the same thing."

Before she could elaborate she was cut off by Laurence, coming through the kitchen doors looking about as irritated as a man like he could get.

"Margaret, what's going on? Table ten – the man doesn't have his meal." His sternness was much more flimsy that he obviously wanted it to be, though judging by the stubble on his face, he'd been having a stressful day already; Laurence nearly always kept his face shaved clean, so Louisa pictured a very hectic morning for him. "He says you messed up the order."

"You know that isn't true… you took his order yourself, sir." Maggie said, though still signs of contrition were visible on the girl's face. Maggie was, like Laurence, apologetic by nature, which always seemed to make their conflicts endearingly entertaining to watch. "He said he never asked for the steak and demanded a sandwich instead. He wasn't very pleasant about it, either."

"Oh, I see," Laurence tittered, looking a shade embarrassed. "I thought he would like it."

Maggie glanced at Louisa, sharing a smile.

"Old school-mate, Laurence?" Louisa asked as he went to the window and stuck his head through the same way Maggie had only moments before.

He pulled his head back out and said, "Not a school friend, no. He's a colleague of Kitty's brother, Greg."

"Greg Lestrade?" Louisa asked.

Kitty was Larry's sweet little wife, who often made visits to the Red Light for lunch, sometimes in the company of the Detective-Investigator; according to Maggie, Lestrade was a pretty well-known figure in the local sphere of London, being a highly-reputed investigator for New Scotland Yard, though apparently he had gone through the ringer to hold that position. This popular figure Louisa knew well enough, since she'd seen him on so many occasions. She had never actually spoken to him, but Louisa's quick affection for Kitty led her to respect a man who might have been like her in some ways.

Laurence gave an affirming inclination to her question. "He called this morning to tell me he recommended the Red Light to the colleague, that we should expect him, and that anything he ate would be put on Greg's tab. I assumed anyone would appreciate a nice filet on the house." Now Laurence poked his eyes almost timidly into Maggie's. "Was he quite rude, Maggie?"

"Quite rude," the girl sniffed. "He shoved the plate back at me and said, 'a person would have to be either insane or ridiculous to eat a steak at eleven in the morning'."

"I was told he's a respectable man, really." Laurence said, examining the sandwich Henry passed to him with special care. "Perhaps he's a bit brusque but I'm sure we can make him happy again. Keep on the smiles, eh?"

The hostess, Emily, leaned through one of the kitchen doors.

"You've got four at 42, Louisa." She said, and quick as a flash she was gone again, probably off to try to catch the attention of Jimmy, the barman.

Louisa started for the dining room, putting on her game-face as she listened to the last of Maggie's meek complaints and Larence's placation, both of which grew fainter as she drew nearer the doors.

"He makes me nervous, with the way he just stares. I'd much rather you looked after him, as you're so keen on pleasing him, Larry."

"Yes, well, as to that, you should see the amount of emails I've got to respond to…"

The group of four at table 42 were young, probably too young to be out of school at eleven twenty-seven on a Monday morning, but for all Louisa knew their school allowed them to leave for lunch. Her school in Athlone had strictly prohibited such a thing, but she had heard distant tales of places that were much more relaxed in their rules. And, though they were young, they were polite and as quiet as anyone else in the dining room, so she didn't exactly bother to care about their business. She brought them buttered scones and the drinks they wanted, and within perhaps five minutes she'd entered their orders and was left with nothing to do but wait for her section to come back on rotation for another table.

The evil in having free time before the lunch shift was even over was that it was too early to find anything to do; everything was still relatively clean in the kitchen, and stocked on the lines, and there was hardly enough flatware to even consider running through the industrial dishwasher in the back. The only thing to brighten her lack of activity was that her section had been placed in the small hall that the servers called the Greenhouse. It was separated from the rest of the dining room by a brick wall that was broken up on the upper half by arches. At the base of each arch, where the wall ran unbroken perhaps a metre from the ground, there was a booth, three in total; and opposite these, against the wall that led to the side-alley outdoors, were three tables large enough to seat six at a time. One either end of the hall there were two full archways punched through the brick wall, passageways in and out of the dining room.

This isolated little area had been given the name of Greenhouse for its windows. Excluding the front of the restaurant, where two large windows could be seen on either side of the entrance, this room was the only other place with any natural light. There were five in all, large and wide, paned in sixteenths. They split in the middle, able to be opened, but now that the weather was growing colder Laurence had decided to lock them. Some of the sections of glass were a light, delicate green, more like sea-glass than the common, clear panes they shared space with. They were placed randomly, no window following the pattern of any of the others, and when the light was shining through them, an almost ethereal cadence was cast over the patterned carpet.

It really did give one the feeling of being in an actual greenhouse; the rafters in the dining room were exposed, all support-beams and ventilation hugging the walls high above heads, but in here the roof was slanted down towards the windows, and paneled in thin planks of prettily varnished birch wood. It was the perfect place to read or to have breakfast, the potted plants hanging above the windows allowing one the impression of being in some sort of indoor garden, but somehow it seemed that Louisa was the only one who liked the Greenhouse. It was too far from the kitchen for any other server to really appreciate it during a busy hour, and sections with more booths were often sought after, as the majority of guests who came to dine seemed to prefer the cushioned seating.

But for Louisa, the Greenhouse was not only aesthetically pleasing; it gave her the illusion of being far apart from the bustle of the dining room, even when the restaurant was packed. She always had the entire room to herself whenever she was assigned to the section, so there was never any chance of having to navigate around other servers while she carried trays of food or hands full of glasses.

Then, most of all, when she was as bored as she was today, she could stand in one of the archways and look around at everyone scattered about the booths and tables in that Other World, and feel as though she were seeing without being seen. She stood now just out of sight of her guests at table 42, and fell into watching the people, all of them either speaking in subdued tones amongst little pockets and groups, or reading or writing or working on various methods of employment.

It was a sight that Louisa could easily love, and she had seen it every day she spent at the Red Light.

She mused now that Laurence had chosen the perfect name for the place, despite the décor theme being so cool and earthy, hardly a shade of red to be found in either the area rugs or booth cushions.

It was the concept of stopping, Louisa thought, that made the name so apt for this little slot of Northumberland Street. The actions never stopped – people still spoke and read and wrote and worked – but the seemingly constant underlying current of chaos came to a halt at the Red Light's threshold – a vampire no one had yet wanted to invite in.

Laurence had really gotten something special working in this restaurant. Even back home there had been no place like it that Louisa could think of. It was almost strange, to think that so many people were at ease with softness and quiet tones, when she'd always believed people craved that chaos to be excited.

Her eyes sought out table ten, mind suddenly curious for a glance at the bad man who had sent back Larry's poor filet. He sat facing the window near the entrance, his back to Louisa so that all she could see was the exact line of his shoulders, the way his black coat seemed to hug him. The back of his neck was hidden by the coat's collar, snapped up under his ears so that the dip of his dark curls was concealed as well, though from the angle Louisa could tell his hair met at the nape of his neck. It was a style that was purposely cut to look good while messy, so it was obvious he took his barber seriously.

The man seemed to be doing nothing, beyond staring out that window.

Louisa wondered whether he was simply thinking, as she was, or silently seething about the injustice of having his order assumed for him. And, as she reasoned with herself that it could very well have been a concoction of both, a movement in her peripheral caught her attention.

There was a counter that stretched along the West wall of the dining room, reaching to a stop where the wall was indented for the passage through the kitchen doors. Usually pies were put on display there, accompanied by large stacks of copies of the Book of the Month (a tradition Laurence recalled fondly from his days in Primary school). At the end of the counter nearest to the kitchen was a tray of pitchers filled with water, a set of ramekins, and a pan of lemons; it was here that Louisa saw Maggie shuffling foot to foot, visibly nervous in a dramatic sort of way that might have been more comical if Louisa wasn't so familiar with the girl's disposition.

Maggie was apparently waging a mental war with herself, until finally she reached deliberately for one of the pitchers. At table ten, the bad man's glass was all but empty.

Eventually Maggie appeared to work up the nerve to actually walk over to the table. She picked up the dreaded guest's glass, and he lifted his head to look at her. As Louisa noted the features of his profile (thick eyebrows, lighter than the hair on his head. Prominent forehead, sloping chin, sharp cheekbones, too sharp, malnourished) she also noticed that Maggie failed to turn away from the table before beginning to fill the glass, as Louisa had tried so many times to make her remember.

She knew what would happen almost immediately, but still Louisa gasped in sympathetic mortification as Maggie lost control of her pour; water sloshed over the rim of the glass, causing Maggie's fingers to slip.

The glass might have fallen in slow motion, given how clearly Louisa saw the thing flip over in mid-air, and though the thin rug covering the floor prevented it from shattering, the man was still dashed with a fair amount of his own drinking water.

Maggie convulsed away from the water's trajectory, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Now!?" Shouted the man, who leapt to his feet as though a skillet of hot oil had been turned over his lap. Every guest within earshot (that is to say, every last one of them, given the volume of the man's outburst) fell into a stupefied silence, heads turning in unison to the source of all the noise like an army of meerkats sensing danger. A violent shade of crimson filled Maggie's face from her neck to her hairline, so strong that Louisa felt sweaty just looking at her. "Now, of all bloody moments!? I'm on a case!"

Louisa stayed where she was for the slightest moment, apparently a little dumb. She wouldn't have expected that sort of reaction from anyone.

"Don't they train you people anymore?" The man demanded loudly. "Or is filling a glass successfully so far beyond your ability to comprehend?"

Maggie, whose mouth had been hanging open, snapped her lips shut, and the sight of her wobbling chin finally brought Louisa to her senses; she rushed through the dining room like a breathless mother who'd just lost her child in the a throng of people at a circus, and it seemed that her movements motivated the lookers-on to look away.

"We'll clean this up," She said at once, when she'd reached table ten. She gave Maggie's elbow a gentle tug as she knelt to pick up the glass, scooping up as much ice into it as she could.

Maggie, clearly without much thought, reached for the linen napkin that was tucked firmly underneath the plate on which the turkey club sat untouched and neglected, and before Louisa could form a warning the girl yanked hard in haste.

Of course, the plate went up, flipping over the edge of the table almost gracefully, like a professional taking a leap from a diving board.

It fell to the ground with a dull bonk, slices of turkey and ham slapping against the seat of the chair the man had only just abandoned. A cold bit of Swiss cheese flapped over Louisa's eye and she blinked until her lashes brushed it off, wiping her hand over her face on instinct; she almost wanted to laugh.

"Well that's wonderful, really. Good on you." The man said, hand gesticulating angrily at the mess on the floor. "Bring me the manager of the establishment, and keep yourself out of my sight."

"In a moment, sir." Louisa intoned, standing straight and some dim part of her was able to take credit for sounding far more firm than she felt. She wasn't by any means a fan of confrontation, and part of her worried that she might still have cheese on her face (causing her to sweep over her eye once again, compulsively) but she was sure that if Maggie got any redder she would evaporate, leaving nothing behind but a slightly rumpled uniform.

The Bad Man's attention cracked on to her like a whip, and at that moment Louisa felt as though a spotlight had clapped on above her head. She refused to let any features display that racking anxiety, certain from the nearly mechanical gleam in that startling eye that the man in front of her was the sort who picked out weakness like strawberries in the summer.

Louisa slipped the linen napkin from Maggie's dead-fish grasp, telling her, "Go get a broom. And more napkins. Take your time, don't bring Laurence for at least six, maybe seven minutes if you can." She said it all as softly as she could without allowing her whispers to get lost in the swirls of music streaming from the speakers over-head, but by the way the man's eyes were narrowed as she turned back to face him, she knew that he had managed to hear.

Louisa wasn't sure what her plan was, exactly. She couldn't really hope to talk him out of his anger - he reeked of persistence, stubbornness, yet here she was.

They were as alone as any two people could have been in a wide room full of mutual strangers. She met his stare.

And without a word she dropped back to her knee like a heavy stone in water, knowing she should say something, but opting to search under the table for the wreckage of the crash-landed club. A brief, genuine sting of sadness was actually felt for that sandwich, which had lived and died in vain, and then she promptly smiled at her own ridiculousness, amused at the perfect example of completely random thoughts people had when under stress.

He saw the smile and frowned down at her more deeply, though it was a pointless expression, as she couldn't see it. From her behaviour he could tell she meant to try and placate him; it was truly odd to see her smile so unaffectedly in a situation of the sort they were in, and he wondered whether she were insolent, touched, or simply laughing at him.

If she was laughing at him, there was no way to demand an explanation without making her laugh more, so he settled for, "Is this how you typically treat your paying guests?"

Louisa placed a few bits of soft bread into the napkin she held, taking a moment to think before answering. Her eyes were a deep shade of green, incredibly dark around the rim of her irises, like the needles of a sentinel pine, but nearer to the center the colour was brightened from something just below the surface. As she spoke he noted her accent, tried to gauge her mien and pick up what he could from her diction; he analysed her.

"Margaret never meant for any of this to happen, I can assure you, Mr…?" She paused and waited.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man replied, momentarily unable to tell whether the girl was angry with him, annoyed, or bored. She gazed at him with perfect impassivity, but he knew it was only a thin mask of desired propriety. People didn't put on masks to hide happy emotions or warmth; she was the sort who needed to be provoked to be seen.

Mr Holmes shrugged off his coat and Louisa watched placidly as he patted at the wet spots as though convinced that this would dry them. The set of his eyes was perhaps 2 millimetres farther apart than the average man of his height, and they were a clear, untroubled mint colour. The word petulant ballooned in her mind's eye.

"And this," he continued, not missing a beat. "Is my good coat. If I had to give it a name, I'd call it Disappointed. Don't think I'll give up on seeing that manager."

Louisa actually hung her head, sighing through her nostrils with a steady gust of resignation. She stood upright, feeling the need for a more dignified position, and she couldn't have missed the way his attention seemed to dance over her, top to bottom; she was uncomfortable, but she had sort of expected this.

"I apologise for the trouble, Mr Holmes, really," she began, but before she could continue the man interrupted her with a mighty, nearly unbelievable scoff.

"What can I do with your apologies?" He questioned snobbishly. "The girl who threw my food at me should be apologising, as well as the oaf who trained her."

"She didn't throw your food at you," Louisa reminded him calmly. Her collectedness was a shell. "It was an accident. You were standing well away."

"She splashed my water on me." He countered quickly.

"The glass slipped," Louisa said, and he was sure he noticed a twitch in her jaw.

"And what sort of waitress doesn't know to turn away as she fills a glass?" He quipped, hands held behind his back. He followed up instantly by answering his own question. "Not the sort who should keep her job, I tell you."

Her brow quirked now, the slightest spasm in her forehead.

"You made her nervous."

"The world must be ending if a job in the restaurant industry comes with a bit of stress."

The barest hint of a smile was there on his lips, not quite strong enough to tug at their corners. In fact, it was so subtle that it may have been a trick of the light, illuminating him from behind, but the smugness of his tone was enough to make it clear.

He was toying with her, and really, why shouldn't he have been? She'd offered herself up like a lamb for slaughter, had challenged him, this man who clearly considered himself to be so above challenges that he looked for them in every corner. Everything about him, from the arch of his brow to the press of his trousers and fit of his suit jacket – all coming full circle to that perpetual expression of boredom coated just a layer under every feature – bespoke of an overwhelming sense of superiority. He even managed to be looking down his nose at her, though she was little more than a head shorter than him, and he stood beyond the other end of the table.

Louisa could tell that he thought her simple, inconsequential, could see it in the smile that wasn't really there. She pressed down the agitation and reclaimed her firmness.

"What could the owner possibly do for you, Mr Holmes?" She asked evenly, and she was amused to see that he looked a little thrown. When it was evident that he needed more to go on, she filled in the blanks. "In my experience, people call for a boss either because they don't want to be expected to pay for a disappointing experience, or because they simply feel the need to voice their negative feedback about things that happen, which are often either accidents, or completely out of the restaurants control. Your meal was free from the moment you were seated, and you've already given your review to the entire dining room. So, I'm simply curious to know what I've missed."

He took a break from his condescension and seemed to regard her seriously for the first time. He was more unsettling when he was quiet, however, and as his gaze racked down to her neck and over to the spot on her chest where her nametag had been pinned, she resisted the urge to swipe her hand over it, keep it from his view.

The eyes slid back into place, reconnecting with hers, still serious.

"You're quick to dismiss genuine complaints, aren't you?" Was all he said.

"With all due respect, it's only water." And in an undertone she added, "I'd say you can afford a dry-cleaning, if the stains bother you."

He was silent for a long moment, before taking a soft breath.

"I chose to come here because I was told the environment was… unobtrusive. Quiet." He said this as though it was meant to sum up the whole of his argument.

"The library's quiet."

"I also need to eat."

"Lunch at home, then."

He might have said she was teasing him, from the arch look in her eyes and the slight smirk on her lips, but it was incredibly difficult to get a definitive read on her words. It was impossible to be truly offended by her, though that might have been from the way her accent softened her speech than from any real playfulness. He couldn't tell.

Though he wasn't offended, she still watched as his lips puckered into a vastly annoyed smile.

"How would you have had me handle it, then, since you so clearly want to tell me."

Something in the question brought her back to the actual situation, and suddenly she was glancing over her shoulder, pathetically relieved to see that none of the other guests had renewed their curiosity in the scene she was perpetrating with Mr Holmes.

"Afraid of an audience?" he muttered, but if she heard him, let alone registered what he said he couldn't say. When she looked at him again, her eyes were still hooded over.

"You ought to have kept yourself under control from the first, Mr Holmes, and allowed Maggie the chance to apologise on her own behalf. You might have even requested a new waitress, but instead you chose to threaten to tattle on an eighteen year old girl and make her cry." There was obvious feeling behind her words, yet still they remained free of abrasion, as matter-of-fact as anyone could be. "I can understand your being upset, don't get me wrong, but considering Mr Stimple went out of his way to make you feel accommodated, I think it is wrong of you to fire off insults over something as silly as a dropped water glass."

"Accommodated?" Holmes actually looked incredulous. "From the moment I stepped in this place it's been one mistake after the other. I was quite patient at first-"

"You were sent a lovely meal by the owner, which you turned your nose up to because you couldn't be prevailed upon to forsake your eating regimen for a proper ounce of manners; Mr Stimple rectified the situation you put yourself into by not being capable of accepting what was so graciously given to you; and, finally, Maggie continued to serve you despite the way you treated her over a mistake in your order, which she had nothing to do with."

The calmness in her tone was a little infuriating, making him feel patronised.

To cap it all off, she went on with the air of someone giving a polite medical consult. "Really, if you think about it, none of this would have happened if you weren't so inherently rude, Mr Holmes."

"Rude." It was a statement, and though he still looked astounded Louisa picked up the distinct impression that he had heard all this before; perhaps he just hadn't expected to hear it today, at this moment. "Why is it that you feel compelled to, ah… put me in my place, for lack of better phrasing?"

By now Louisa had pretty much thrown caution to the wind, aware that she had far surpassed any chance of talking Mr Holmes out of filing his complaints about Maggie, had definitely managed to put herself up for more ammunition. She answered him honestly and immediately, knowing it was too late to start caring.

"Because you're the sort of man who genuinely believes he can do no wrong, and I dislike that quality in a person." She titled her head, brow raised as if a thought had just occurred to her. "Though, in your defense, I don't think you can very well help it."

The incredulity quickly morphed into an expression of mocking curiosity. "You presume to know quite a bit about me."

Another challenge.

"I'm not presuming anything, Mr Holmes." Louisa replied defiantly, and for the first time her impassivity crumbled into a wide, knowing smile. "I don't intend to play along with whatever game you're trying to drudge up, I'm merely making an observation. If you weren't so arrogantly obtuse you'd be able to see for yourself how your behaviour leads to certain assumptions. Correct me if I'm wrong, but people don't typically like you, do they?

She checked herself a moment too late when she saw his expression close, and she knew then she'd gone too far. His tone, however, was sneering enough as he said, "Do you really believe I care if you dislike me?"

"I'm indifferent towards you, sir." She felt guilty all of a sudden; this really wasn't the first time he'd heard all of this. "I've seen a few qualities that you possess which… get on my nerves, if I'm being honest. But I won't pretend to know you well enough to make such a complete judgement of your character."

Holmes narrowed his eyes at the conciliatory note in her voice, and for a long moment he only stared at her. Louisa found herself wondering whether Maggie had abandoned her completely. Six minutes had passed, and she had a table to check on.

No, he could get no solid idea of this girl. Louisa. The trouble with a uniform was that it generalised whomever wore it, and all he could gather about this waitress from her dress was that she was rather zealous in her personal hygiene; she shirt she donned was the same black button-up as he'd seen others wearing as they milled about, but the colour was less pronounced, suggesting she put it in the wash after each shift. There were slight creases in the shirt, but the day was hot and she probably removed it and stuffed it into her bag on her way to work. Her nails were trimmed and her makeup was minimal, so she was someone who didn't like to draw attention to herself. But her posture was not defensive, her gaze unflinching, and her hair, which undoubtedly fell in thick, soft curls when loose, was braided perfectly to the side, not a stray hair to be seen except those that were too short to keep from framing her face. No split-ends, no broken strands. So she was more than clean, she was caring in her appearance. Confident but preferring to stay in the shadow.

There was a watch on her left wrist, as black as her uniform and as simple as her makeup, and fairly new. So, she purchased the watch purely for work then.

She must have started her job here less than eight weeks ago – that, paired with an air of naivety (a quality which had the shelf-life of little more than a quarter-year at most in a city such as London) suggested that she began working very shortly after migrating from Ireland (somewhere in the Midlands, judging from her accent, but he would have needed a look at an older pair of her shoes to know precisely where).

She was the sort of person who planned to keep busy. Her purchasing a watch solely for her job hinted that she had another watch as well, to wear in her personal time, which obviously meant that time was important to her, and the fact that she didn't rely on a mobile to keep track of it suggested an overall mindset of solidarity.

The only personal affect she wore that had no tie to her uniform was a pair of tiny opal earrings pierced through small lobes, obviously a gift from her mother. The fact she wore them to work made it clear the wore them all the time, showing him that not only was she close with her mother, but her taste in general leant more towards the classic.

The rest he gleaned was simply conjecture based on her manner and style of speaking. She was maternal, shy despite her apparent desire to be heard. She was a student, that was clear enough, but the exact subject of what she studied evaded him. And then there was the sudden teasing, the way he could feel her wanting to get under his skin at times, which revealed some playful, immature aspect of her personality, which shouldn't have been all that surprising, considering she could not have been more than twenty years old. But her playfulness seemed like an uncommon flare in such a person, and he couldn't put his finger on why that should be.

She was straightforward enough in what she said, so he could gauge almost certainly that the waitress was no liar, and yet her air was so multi-faceted that he could hardly call her a soldier of truth, either. She stood with her hands at her sides, rather than arms folded over her chest or fiddling with her apron as a defensive person might have done, but still, she was evidently in the habit of hiding behind those dark irises.

Once the three total seconds in which he strove to uncover her had passed, Sherlock was well beyond amused to find that Louisa had started to mirror his own analytical gaze back at him. Her eyes traveled to the cuffs of his jacket, the open collar of his shirt, and the hems of his trousers… And then, she smirked. Another knowing expression.

"I suggest you try the loo, Mr Holmes," she said, and now she did fold her arms over her chest, but it was a gesture of triumph that made him grit his teeth. "I'll finish up with this mess whilst you attend to your water stains. I wish you luck."

"Call me Sherlock," He suggested dryly, folding his Belstaff over his arm. "Don't bother with the owner, I can find another time to voice my negative feedback."

He practically savoured the small flutter of surprise over her features as he strode towards the door, intending to leave her without another word until a question scraped its way into his head, and he was forced to turn back. She still stood there, arms folded and expression taken aback.

"Do you typically work on Wednesdays?"

She didn't bother asking him why he wanted to know, but her response was too quick to be authentic. "I never work Wednesdays."

He gave her an enigmatic smile. "So you do lie."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Have a wonderful day, Mr Holmes."

And then she was kneeling back under the table, her search for wreckage renewed. She glanced up when she heard the bell over the door clanging against the glass, and finally she let her shell collapse completely as she scowled at the image of Sherlock Holmes, walking past the right-hand window. He'd pulled on his coat with a flourish, apparently unbothered with the wet patches, and then he flipped up the collar of that coat, a veritable James Dean.

A sound of disgust grated against the back of her throat.

"Don't you worry, dear," Louisa turned her head to the source of the voice, a wizened old woman seated at the table adjacent to the once at which all the trouble had occurred. "I saw the whole thing. Anyone would have done the same as you, I'll tell Larry myself."

Louisa put on her smile and thanked the old woman, recognising her as a regular customer whose dresses always looked more like hospital gowns, but internally she was still fuming; she picked a few bits of cold, greasy bacon from the fibers of the rug, certain that the Bad Man congratulated himself with his victory over a lowly waitress.

* * *

"Oh, God, no." Sherlock growled with utmost feeling, letting his feet fall heavily on each step as he ascended the staircase, lugging a duffel bag full of cedar wood samples along with him. John followed after him, practically on his heels. "I refuse John. And before you ask – no, it has nothing to do with her. I'm on a case."

Sherlock let himself into the flat (once again experiencing that sharp pang of something remarkably similar to nostalgia as he stepped into the sitting room and smelt those old, familiar walls) and might have closed the door on John if the doctor hadn't stuck his shoed foot in front of the doorjamb.

Since he'd woken and went into the kitchen for coffee that bright, Tuesday morning John had been persistent in this subject, even tagging along to the lumber supply liquidator despite Sherlock's obvious murky mood. No matter, Sherlock thought. He did not mean to go.

"What, you haven't solved it already?" John shut the door behind him and went immediately into the kitchen to put on a fresh pot of coffee; he was practically running on fumes, having gotten perhaps three hours of fitful sleep from Sherlock's intermittent pounding in the sitting room.

At one point John had even detangled himself from his sheets to bellow at Sherlock, but when he'd walked into the common area and found the detective beating planks of oak wood with a mallet, he'd turned around right away and scurried back to his bedroom, knowing that anything he said would be useless. It had been Mary's idea to make him sleep at Baker Street, and part of John blamed her for the fog of sleepiness.

"From all the noise last night I figured you'd blazed through it." John went on and Sherlock stretched on the sofa, propping his feet on the arm opposite the one he laid his head on.

He settled his hands on his stomach, interlocking his fingers.

"I haven't solved it. I only know what happened." He replied at last.

John paused at the icebox, palm against the handle. "If you know what's happened, then it's solved, isn't it?"

"I know how it happened; I don't know who did it." Sherlock considered this clarification enough, wishing that his blogger would simply try from time to time.

In all actuality Sherlock felt a sort of easy agitation, stemming from the absolute dead-end he could see hovering at the end of Antoine Douglas' case.

Lestrade had phoned him at three-eighteen a.m. only morning before last, calling him down to Clapham North. It was a little ways north-west from a lower part of the River Thames, which made the taxi ride much longer than any sensible person should be made to endure at that hour, but he'd gone, hoping for something.

"Then tell me about it. Fill me in." John suggested.

"I wouldn't have to tell you anything if you had been there," Sherlock's nostrils flared just thinking about it; John's absence had made the ride seem at least twice as long, the car void of any sound beyond the mouth-breathing of the oily-haired stoner who manned the wheel, looking as though he'd been dragged out of bed himself.

"I didn't know there was a case until I got home yesterday." John defended, fitting a filter into the coffee pot and pouring in an amount of grounds that would wire anyone else. His tolerance for caffeine, however, had pretty much sky-rocketed since he'd met Sherlock. Even after the detective had "died" John couldn't fully wake up without two cups of the stuff. "It's not as if you even bothered to send a text."

Sherlock, whose lids had dropped closed, popped one eye open to look in the direction of John's voice. The doctor sounded a touch upset, and he jotted the occurrence into one of his mental notepads.

"You were with Mary." Sherlock reminded him, tone void of inflection. "You wouldn't have come."

"I would have," Watson insisted, coming into the sitting room now that the pot was set to brewing. "And Mary would have been happy to see me off. She wants something good for us about as much as you could, I think."

Sherlock scoffed, tossing his head against the arm of the sofa. "Impossible."

John rolled his eyes. "So are you going to talk about it?" He took a seat at his armchair, which had been dragged back into the flat a mere two days after Sherlock's return. "Tell me about it?"

"There's hardly a point; it's nothing."

"Yes, I figured as much." John clenched his jaw. Sherlock never resorted to beating inanimate objects when he was on to anything interesting. "But I'd still like to know."

The truth was that John was a little desperate to see some signs of normalcy from his friend; he'd come back from Munich almost a month ago, after clearing his name and pulling apart the vast majority of Moriarty's network, and while he had received a happy welcome from Molly, Lestrade, and all the rest (John was still angry-hurt-confused himself, had even gotten into three separate physical brawls with Sherlock in one night when he'd revealed himself to be alive, yet the larger part of him knew Sherlock's return was something he'd spent countless nights literally praying for), but there was an emptiness to Sherlock that had not been there before, an emptiness that was obvious even to those who had not mastered the art of observation.

Dealing with Sherlock, or, rather, helping him, was uncannily similar to navigating through a field you know to be riddled with mine-explosives. One wrong step and…

"They found the body behind a nightclub called Ramblers in Clapham North. He had a slash across his throat that had been washed clean, and every inch of him, excepting his head and neck, was done over in plastic. He'd also been zipped in a body bag, and he was still wearing his clothes, though there wasn't a speck of blood on him. I haven't gotten the results yet, but it's more than probable that any promising samples taken from the body or the scene will yield nothing conclusive. The pathology report will undoubtedly show some substance consumption, but that is unremarkable, considering where the man was found and who he was."

"Who was he?"

"Antoine Douglas." Sherlock informed him, flatly. "You'll recognise the name, of course."

"He's the theatre director, right?" John asked. "The one who broke up Patricia Cartwright's marriage."

"The very same."

They fell silent.

"Go on," prompted the doctor, earning himself a dead-eyed glance from Sherlock.

"That's really all you need to know."

"Maybe that's all you need," John replied, irritated again. "But we simple folk need a little more to go on."

"Phone Lestrade then, if you must." Sherlock snapped, his aggression flashing hot and sudden. It might have caught John off guard, if he had not seen the mine right before he stepped on it.

Sherlock sighed and rolled over on his side, facing the back of the sofa now completely. John stared at the man's shoulders, so much sharper, more angular than they had been two years ago.

"Come out with us tonight, Sherlock." John tried, hating the way he sounded as though he were begging. "We need a night out, you and I. Mary's desperate to get to know you more."

Silence.

"Right, how about tomorrow then?" He pressed. "We can get some lunch, troll the site for anything promising."

"I can't."

"Why not?" John asked, tacking on, "Don't say it's because you're already on a case. You've just told me it was nothing."

"I already have plans for lunch."

And though John couldn't see it (if he had, the doctor might have considered it a slightly comforting sight), Sherlock gave the sofa a wry sort of smile, picturing the Red Light.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

Hello everyone!

Please allow me to preface the following by assuring you all that this will be the longest note added to any of my chapters. I just want to take the time to clue any potential readers in to what my plan for the story is.

Firstly, the chapters will be long. Like, really long. BUT, there won't be many chapters to each story. I intend to write three volumes total, all culminating in what I like to call - "the ultimate story-line". The exposition bits might seem to run on a little long, but I promise you, I've put a great deal of thought into the content of this story. It's gone through several edits, so I really think that everything in this first entry is essential to the plot in some way. Every good story needs a strong foreground, amiright?

This is my first attempt at writing for Sherlock. I actually am studying writing, but sometimes the projects lack inspiration. I genuinely feel like working on this story will help me refine my skills, and I just love these characters so much. I can't wait to delve in deep and get at them. Hopefully my own characters are as fleshed-out as their pre-decided counterparts.

I promise you, I'm not one of those writers who will beg for reviews at the end of every chapter, but I would greatly appreciate some feedback for this first chapter. I love the idea of writing this story, but I'm still uncertain as to whether or not I should continue. If you read through this whole thing and want more, please feel free to let me know. Any criticism is also GREATLY appreciated. I practically thrive on feedback.

Come on. Read my story, give it a go.

It'll be grand.

-Emily


	2. Confronting Discomfort

**As The Starling Says** **Volume One**

 **Chapter Two**

* * *

Louisa Daly had been born with a strong moral compass. She could see through things and judge rather well whether they were right or wrong, but more than that, beyond the black-and-white, she could distinguish all that ambivalent gray matter that permeates our unique, inexplicable Earth.

Really, it was a rare talent. Many people possess a moral compass (different sorts of people preferred different sorts of names for the concept, but the foundation of inherent moral coding always remains the same), for the most part, however, people were either too lax or too unyielding in their perception and interpretation of which direction their compass was pointing; some people want only the light and others see only the dark. Then there is the metaphorical Independent Party, that group which subscribes to neither side wholly, and _those_ little gems are harder to come by.

She was the perfect debater, able to argue both side of any issue presented, simply because she (apparently by nature) allowed for every perspective and missed nothing in the questions she posed to herself. It was an ability that allowed her to get along with almost anyone, had made it easy for her not to _hate_ anyone, and as such she lived a life that was ultimately free of drama.

Where some girls projected insecurities and picked on the weak, Louisa hoarded her insecurities to herself, and felt indifference towards the weak, always aware that there was good in everyone, including herself. She valued herself despite her flaws because she saw everything her own personality had to offer, and she valued people that others might have disdained for precisely the same reason.

And yet, despite her lack of conceit, her grounded pride, she may have been one of the most narcissistic beings in existence.

Narcissism is a spectrum, more than it is a single definable defect in character, and each end of that spectrum sits rather far apart from the other; it is either vanity incarnate (manifesting in those types of people who can't get enough of themselves, who consider themselves God's gift to humanity), or it is completely focused internally, in that a person is obsessed with monitoring themselves; this latter half of narcissists are incredibly critical in their every action and string of behaviour, simply because they hold the (mostly) subconscious belief that their every action or string of behaviour affects each and every person around them. In a way, these brands of people are convinced that they are the example for everyone else to follow. If they do badly, the world around them falls apart.

Louisa was a heady mixture of both polar opposites.

It's been stated that she considered herself highly self-aware, and she was, truthfully. She was highly aware of her disarming nature and above-average intellect. She knew she saw things others didn't, had a remarkable memory, and as much raw talent in writing as any classic author that could be named. Because of this, and this alone, Louisa felt comfortable liking everyone, because she always considered herself above offense.

No one could touch her; no one could hurt her or make her believe things about herself that she knew to be false. Her conscience was iron, so no one could call her mean. She knew how to be kind. She could make people laugh and had witty remarks ready in a basket on her arm for every occasion. She had her flaws, and people could point them out, but it could never affect her the way it would affect a person of average understanding.

It's effortless to love the world when it can't mark you; mean girls are misunderstood, bullies are abused as children, and it's easy to remember that if you can see exactly how you are better than them, in what ways you mean more than them.

And, again, _she had her flaws_. No one could hurt her more than she hurt herself. Her family's failures were her fault in some actually logical way, her own insecurities playing on a constant loop every hour of the day in the corners of her head, etc.

On Monday afternoon she'd told Mr Holmes that she disliked that quality she saw in him, of believing he could do no wrong, and there had been nothing but honesty in that statement. But it occurred to her now, as she made her way to the Red Light on Wednesday (which was thankfully cooler by at least ten degrees with a front on the forecast) that she would have needed to say more to have told it all.

She obviously couldn't hate the man, because she could tell that he was intelligent and she could tell that some part of his personality had formed a deficiency that was probably not in his control. But, she certainly did not _like_ him very much, and with retrospect playing the role of the harping angel on her shoulder, she realised that she had gone much too far in making sure that he knew that.

Louisa could hardly get it out of her mind for the remainder of that day, couldn't make the memory of the confrontation go away. She could not, for all the world, remember a time when she had ever spoken to a person like that, so openly and without care of reprimand or consequence. She dedicated enough thought to the subject that she could now comfortably say that she knew _why_ she'd done it, but she wasn't comforted by the reason.

Holmes had gotten to her.

The way he had looked at her, like she was a collection of paragraphs in some dull, monotonous manuscript, read her so strongly that she had felt it… He'd gotten to her, and he'd done it so easily it still smarted to think about. He hardly _said_ anything to her, but she could see strings of rapid thought flying through those eyes the moment he'd really begun paying attention to her.

No one had ever made her feel that way. Sure, customers at the Red Light came in to eat all the time after a long day of being yelled at by their own superiors, and it was typical for those patrons to release stress on their waitresses, make them feel small so that they could be big again. But, as mentioned before, Louisa had always considered herself above offense.

In a nutshell, Louisa's interactions with people who tried to tear her down or judge her were exactly like the advice she'd given to Maggie that Monday: _Ignore them internally, they are beneath you and probably lead small lives_. That advice had been spoken from personal experience, as she had put that into practice with every bully and mean girl and angry guest she had ever come across.

Sherlock Holmes had been different. He'd been trying to look right through her, and at certain points she was sure he'd succeeded. And that _did_ make her feel small. Or, at least, there were times when Mr Holmes had seemed bigger than she.

He'd made her feel as though she had to prove herself, had _made_ her put on her mask when doing so had always been her personal choice.

Louisa knew that Holmes would come back, just as he had implied, but by the time she went to sleep that Monday night, she had already begun the process of curing herself of any apprehension she may have felt as Wednesday dawned. There was still a sense of humiliation she couldn't shake whenever she thought about the incident, and it was true that she thought of it pretty consistently over the bulk of Tuesday, but in the end her logic won out; he would come back, but when he did, Louisa meant to control herself much more effectively.

The only thing that remained uncertain was when exactly Mr Holmes would return to the Red Light. She expected it would happen that day, but she wouldn't have put it past him to prolong the suffering. Her section was in the Greenhouse, which was a small silver-lining, because at least she would be separated from the rest of the dining room if he happened to make an appearance.

Louisa walked into the server's alley to pass the time until she could punch-in, having gotten to the restaurant twelve minutes earlier than she'd intended. She mentally conceded as she fixed her apron about her waist that she must still have been a little nervous; thinking back now she realised she'd flown through her morning routing and pedaled her bike rather fast, probably acting on the subconscious wish to get the day started and over with.

She paused in her process of arranging her pens on the pocket of her apron and opened her bag, rifling through to the bottom to ensure she still had a good supply of ibuprofen tablets. She nearly always got headaches on days that started in such a way.

Maggie came from the back lugging a pail of ice that nearly dwarfed her in size, and as she dumped the contents into the bin in front of the beverage station, she gave an unattractive grunt, heaving the pail up and over. She took a few deep breaths, blinking at Louisa through small, tired eyes. Maggie wasn't lazy by any means, and she was altogether an early-riser, but it often took several hours for the girl to really get it together.

"I don't usually recommend it to people, but I think you would do well to pick up a caffeine habit," Louisa advised. "You look even more terrible than I feel."

"That's a beautiful way to say good morning." Maggie said reproachfully. "Why should you feel terrible? You're not the one with the headache."

Louisa tossed her bottle of ibuprofen in Maggie's direction, and she caught it. "I feel terrible because I'm anticipating an unwanted visitor."

"Yeah well, I still win." She unscrewed the cap and shook out two pills.

"You just need to engage your mind, wake up a bit." Louisa said bracingly. "Let's talk about something interesting."

"I can't think of anything."

"There's always something," a question popped into Louisa's mind that had come up a few times over the past two days. "Whatever came of that Antoine Douglass fellow? Did they find the killer?"

Louisa knew that she could have looked in the newspaper to find the information she wanted, but keeping up on current events wasn't exactly an important concept to her. She was not in the habit of looking in the paper for anything beyond the classifieds, and even if she ever had been, she probably wouldn't have kept it up for a city she had so little acquaintance with. But the Douglas case had intrigued her; it sounded like a good story, one which she would have liked to know the ending of.

"They have a few suspects, people who might've had something to gain from his death, but the lead investigator hasn't given much away about it."

Louisa contemplated for a moment, dissatisfied.

"How'd they find the body?" she asked. "How was he murdered?"

"His throat was cut and he was in a body bag, thrown on top of the rubbish behind the club." Maggie answered. "There's more, but I can't really remember. I can send you links to a few articles about it, if you want."

"Yeah, do that," Louisa decided, knowing there was nothing else concrete she could get from Maggie. "Though, I do wonder what makes you so interested in the story. Fascination with the macabre, Margaret?"

Maggie grinned and shook her head. "No, I actually went out with one of paramedics called to the scene about a week ago." The smile grew. "I met him here, he's not much older than I am. His name is Rick, he's really nice, and _so_ smart."

"And you said nothing interesting has happened." Louisa smiled knowingly. "Sounds like a lad. How much older are we talking?"

"I think he's like, twenty-eight."

Louisa's brows rose.

"Okay, like early thirties at most." Those brows rose higher. "Don't look at me like that, Louisa. He's very sweet."

"A sweet, smart, thirty-two year-old paramedic."

"He _is_ smart." Maggie defended. "He wants to join the police force and see about studying to become a detective."

"I won't tease you anymore, I promise," Louisa squeezed the girls arm affectionately. "But I will tell you to be careful. He might be nice and smart and all those things, but in most cases a man who goes after girls nearly half his age is not the most genuine type."

"He didn't even know how old I was when he took me out," Maggie replied. "When I told him he said he would have guessed twenty-four or five. He actually seemed a little confused."

Louisa smiled, choosing to leave things as they were, though her own thoughts were doubtful. Maggie Kruz was a tiny thing, the top of her head coming only as far as Louisa's collarbone (who was not very tall herself). Her eyes were a wide and innocent hazel that seemed to radiate childishness. She was intelligent, yes, but one would not have known that to look at her, or even to speak with her on first meeting. In both manner and stature she resembled an age even younger than her eighteen years. No one could have possibly interacted with her and thought her anywhere near twenty-five.

Yet, Maggie _was_ an adult. According to the law she was old enough for a pint and old enough to date a man _sixty_ years older than she, if she wanted, so what right did Louisa have to press the matter?

"You know I only say it because I care," Louisa told her, and Maggie nodded.

Another plus to Maggie's personality that Louisa had noticed right away was that she was incredibly sweet-tempered, docile, even. It was easy to hurt her feelings, but it was hard to actually offend her, oddly enough.

"I do know," the girl agreed, and in a moment she was off to check on her tables.

Wednesdays usually saw more business than the two earliest days in the week due to the free bowl of potato soup that was given free to anyone who ordered an entrée. It was one of Louisa's least favourite shifts to work, as ladling countless bowls of soup resulted in at least one messy spill from several of the servers, sometimes even Louisa herself. And the way people went mad for the stuff was almost enough to make her swear off the shift forever (despite the fact that Laurence increased the amount of ingredients needed to make the soup each week, the house never failed to run out of it at some point, and it was sometimes shocking to see how nasty certain individuals could become when they were denied something they were expecting to get). However, the recollection that each Wednesday she went home with her pockets well-lined kept her coming back for more of that specific, slow torture.

With that looming prospect alone to look forward to, it took a great amount of personal effort on Louisa's part to not snap at Laurence when he ambled into the kitchen and informed her that she would only be allowed one table, most likely for the duration of lunch hours.

He'd come in to interrupt Louisa in her perusal of one of her Sudoku puzzles and broke the news to her with such trepidation that controlling her irritation was a smidge easier than it might have been otherwise.

She'd guessed the reason behind Larry's decree just about the moment he gave it, but still she asked.

"That man from Monday – Mr Holmes – is back, and he's asked for you to serve him." Laurence explained quickly, ripping off the bandage.

Louisa pursed her lips, begrudgingly impressed with Mr Holmes; he'd completely bypassed any chance Louisa may have had of pawning him off on someone else by heading straight for the man in charge.

Despite this, however, she gave it a go. "Can't Melissa take him? Or Lilly?"

"He was very particular, dear." Said Laurence apologetically. "Besides, after the state Maggie was left in the last time it would be best for you have him. You're rather good with the difficult ones."

Louisa paused from her next words, momentarily stalled by the implication that Holmes hadn't mentioned anything negative about their confrontation, and she wondered what he was playing at. What was the point of all this? Did he intend to run her to the ground with requests with water, or fresh flatware? Make her miserable?

"You own the place, you know," Louisa pointed out, her pathetically beseeching tones softening her persistence. She would never be rude to Laurence, but she wanted out of this situation if at all possible. "You're well within your rights to throw him out… He made a waitress cry…?"

"I would Lou, only, Greg tells me he owes Mr Holmes quite a lot." Here Laurence broke out of his regretful tone, morphing into something sneaky as he leaned in a bit towards her. "He went under demotion a couple of years ago, and recently Mr Holmes has been the means of restoring him to his former rank. And then, you know – " he straightened up, returning to a normal level of speech. "he also tells me they go way back, old friends, really. Knowing Greg, he can't be all that bad, can he?"

Louisa scoffed doubtfully.

"Plus, he's asked for you, so he's clearly a sensible bloke," he peeked a furtive glance at her, obviously hoping his flattery would smooth the way.

Louisa held the stare for a long moment, internally scanning for any exit strategies she had yet to exhaust, but in the end Larry took the victory. Without a word she went to the warming oven and pulled out a tray of bread.

"I owe you one, Louisa," Laurence beamed and then walked off somewhat awkwardly to his office behind the kitchen.

Louisa stared regretfully at her made-up basket of rolls, knowing that Mr Holmes would probably disdain her bringing them.

He did.

She found him in the Greenhouse, and something about the sight of his lean figure, alone at a table by the window, marred the usually peaceful atmosphere. The only parts of him that moved as she neared him were his eyes, glancing up at her with a quality of calculated amusement. She placed the basket in front of him, and then he pushed it away with a slender index finger.

"Good afternoon, Mr Holmes." Louisa said, her tone even.

Sherlock's eyes darted over her for a moment, finding nothing new, nothing different in her appearance from what he had seen only day before last.

He inclined his head towards her. "Louisa."

"Miss Daly, please." She had to press her lips together to keep from smiling at the look on his face. The static which upset the air around them made her first impulse to make him as uncomfortable as possible.

"I allowed you the use of my first name," he reminded her, attempting and failing to mask his confusion.

"You did," Louisa agreed. "And I declined the offer, Mr Holmes."

He flipped his menu shut dramatically and held it up to her. She took it from him as he said, "I see reflection has done nothing to dilute your insolence."

"I see that wanting to keep things professional falls under your personal description of insolence." Louisa said, and at that moment she remembered that she was supposed to be controlling herself. She cleared her throat, actually embarrassed for a beat or two. "What would you like to order?"

"Garlic filet," Now his mouth split into a smile of highest entertainment, and she could tell he meant to upset her, make her indignant.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but literally could not stop herself from matching the smile.

She gave a breath of laughter.

"You're a funny man, Mr Holmes."

"I do what I can." He said dryly, mentally put-off by her abrupt change in manner. "Medium temperature."

"Sides?" She asked sweetly, knowing now which way to play him. She could (funnily enough) only kill this beast with kindness.

He frowned at her and flapped his hand, and she got the sense that he was rather disappointed.

"I don't care, surprise me."

She turned on her heel with a satisfied little flourish, feeling as though she'd won the first battle. She then entered his order into the terminal at the end of the Greenhouse and went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. She'd forgotten to ask Mr Holmes what he wanted to drink, but one could never go wrong with water, could they?

Left in the Greenhouse, Sherlock drummed his fingers against the table, consternation screwing up his features as he waited for Louisa to come back.

What was he supposed to do with himself? Was this what his life had been stripped down to – resorting to a waitress for some semblance of entertainment – no real prospects for occupation? Maybe there even was something at the bottom of the Douglas case, maybe he just wasn't seeing it. It wouldn't have been the first time his brain kept a secret from him.

The girl had come back, and he hadn't even noticed. A glass of water stood from a white paper napkin she must have placed at his elbow, and for a while he watched the ice melt slowly, watched the condensation bead on the outside of the glass.

It made Sherlock think back to when he was five years old, when Mycroft had convinced him to plunge his right foot into a bucket of frigid iced water, to see how long Sherlock could take it. The idea was to test how greatly the factor of mental fortitude contributed to the ability to withstand pain, and apparently Mycroft had also managed to get the maid's son to go along with it as well, so that he could compare the results of an average mind with that of a much more developed mind.

Now Sherlock's lips quirked into an empty, somewhat bitter smile, recollecting that a very large part of him had done as Mycroft demanded only as yet another attempt to prove himself; his brother had never shared the results of the juvenile experiment, but still Sherlock failed to doubt that he'd won out over Fulgencio.

Mental fortitude, however, was doing nothing to aid him in his listlessness.

He looked round the empty little hall he'd been pushed into, feeling as though there was nothing at all worth attaching his attention to. There was nothing worth thinking about internally either, apparently, as he so often found lately that the more he shut himself away in his mind, the more his thoughts turned down a less-favourable track.

Sherlock allowed himself to search for the waitress, mildly curious about her, he reasoned, because she was an object that was perfectly safe to be curious over; she held no reminders of the recent past, and he believed so far that she had no clue who he was, or anything about the things he'd done. His view of the main dining room was very limited, the half-arches above the booths acting as glassless windows into the restaurant that was slowly filling with guests. Miss Daly wasn't anywhere out there in his line of sight, but he did notice that none of the newly-arrived guests came into the hall he was seated in. Instantly he knew it was because the waitress meant for him to be the only customer for her to serve, probably believing that he would make himself a handful.

If Sherlock had ever been one for honest self-examination, he might not have been able to blame her for such an assumption. As it were, his dull indignation put him half in the mind to prove her right.

He fixed his gaze on the kitchen doors as their movement caught his focus, just as Miss Daly came through them. She carried a large oval tray laden with plates, poised on the palm of her left hand. Her centre of gravity must have been natural as he was quite sure she'd never waited tables before in her life. But her balance was perfect as she walked with a sure stride, towards an enormous crescent-shaped booth near the bar to serve a party of five. She never supported the tray on her shoulder, and as she began to pass around plates he noticed that she relied only on the strength of her arm to hold it steady. Yet, he couldn't find anything in her that suggested she was an athletic person, so he assumed that her lifestyle was simply highly active.

As she worked around the booth she disappeared for a moment behind an unbroken bit of the brick wall that kept him sequestered from everyone else, and Sherlock turned his gaze over the dining room in general once more, sipping his water and putting a mild amount of consideration into checking his phone for any updates on his site.

In the kitchen, Louisa had run out of food to take out. There was nothing for her to do beyond waiting in the alley for the Bad Man's filet to come up on the line. The rest of the servers were too occupied with their multitude of tables for conversation, so she watched the kitchen teams shout out cook times and demands for garnish to one another. For a while she busied herself with marveling at how well they all worked together. It might have been nice, Louisa thought, to be a chef… But the heat would have been the eventual death of her, she was certain.

At last the filet was finished. Louisa prodded the middle of it with a clean index finger, trying to judge whether or not it was the proper medium-temperature. There was very little point to the action, as she actually had no clue as to what a medium steak ought to feel like, but she was compelled by one of her many quirks to see it through anyway.

As she passed through the swinging doors into the dining room, her eyes automatically clapped onto her destination, just visible through the middle arch in the wall, and she found Holmes staring right at her. He didn't bother looking away when she noticed him, and as she maneuvered around tables she wondered how long he'd been waiting for her to come out from the kitchen.

His eyes were still trained on her as she came into the Greenhouse, so she kept her expression as blank as she could. Then, when she set the plate in front of him she graced him with a smile, and his reaction was to frown at her, as was apparently typical for him.

"Will you cut into that?" she indicated the filet. "Just to see if it's cooked properly."

He picked up his knife and fork, but the expression he wore gave Louisa the sense he resented the suggestion. He sliced through the surface precisely down the middle, and she noted the obvious dexterity of his fingers, making the movement appear more as a display of connate ability than carving a piece of red meat.

"Aren't you a detective?" Louisa asked, and let it be known that she surprised even herself; what was intended as a silent thought bloomed into words, quite without her willing it.

" _Consulting_ detective." He corrected, checking the original idea he'd constructed about her, that she knew nothing about him. As she thought over his response, an amused tilt of her lips appeared.

"Well, forgive me." She laughed softly.

"Not at all," he said curtly. "Good to know you keep up with the papers."

"I never read the news," she said.

"Then how did you come to guess my occupation?"

"I happen to know you're a colleague of Detective-Investigator Lestrade, so it wasn't much of a leap." Her eye seemed to glitter with more of that amusement as she met his stare. "And then, you _did_ spend a full minute loudly proclaiming your occupation on Monday."

He looked befuddled for a brief moment, switching to nettled recollection as she went on. She imitated him with as deep a register she could manage. " _Now of all bloody moments? I'm on a_ case!" She punctuated the last word by stabbing a haughty finger in the air, shoulders held ridiculously rigid.

"If you already know, then why did you ask?" He droned, though at this point, with all her teasing he was at the point where he hardly cared. He wondered again at how dull life had become.

"I thought for a moment you might have been in the medical field." Louisa explained.

"And what would give you that idea?" His tone was rich with bored sarcasm, but still she answered.

"You hold your knife like a scalpel. Natural precision with your hands… One doesn't often see that in a detective." Said Louisa. "Now I suppose you dabble in many different fields, what with having the unique title of Consulting Detective."

His brows twitched and the corners of his mouth pulled into another frown, but he shrugged as if to say, _I'll allow it_.

Silence took them.

Then, Louisa shifted a bit awkwardly. "So… The filet…?"

He looked down and then up again. "Is adequate," he finished shortly.

"Okay, great." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she walked past him… And then she was walking backwards until she was standing in front of him once more.

His gaze crept up to her expectantly, and a little begrudgingly.

"What?" He demanded, but if she was bothered by his exasperation, she didn't let on.

"I only wondered… You wouldn't happen to have worked on the murder of Antoine Douglas, would you?"

His eyes narrowed by a fraction, interest piqued.

"You said you don't read the papers."

"I don't. A friend of mine told me about it, and I'm curious."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "It's a good story, for obvious reasons."

His lip curled patronisingly. "Such as?"

"Well… it's a bit difficult…" She hesitated, running straight into the same wall that had plagued her conversations for as long as she could remember; that same wall that always seemed to halt her whenever she was called upon to convey her abstract, image-based thoughts into actual, substantial wording. She was much better when she had a pen to act as the medium, but she couldn't very well sit down and write out an explanatory paragraph to Mr Holmes, so she settled with posing questions. "A man like Douglas wouldn't just _go_ to Ramblers, which means he was brought there, right? So then, _why_ was he taken there? Why Ramblers, of all places? And where was he before that? From what I've been told, the investigators haven't given away many details about the situation."

Holmes remained stoic for a moment long enough to make Louisa feel a little ridiculous. Then he took a quick breath and said, "No, Douglas never went to Ramblers on his own, he was brought there – or somewhere very close to it. He was killed before he got there, which is fairly obvious because –"

She cut him off with a sharp intake of breath, looking as though realisation had just dawned. " _Oh,_ because of the plastic wrap… Of _course_." For a brief moment Sherlock half-expected her to smack her palm against her forehead. "His body was wrapped and put into a bag, wasn't it?"

He nodded silently, peeved that she hadn't just let him finish.

Louisa tittered at herself, for the moment oblivious to his annoyance. "You know I was really boggled by that one. I feel a little silly now." She grew sober quickly as she realised his expression had deadpanned. "Sorry. Go on."

"I've answered all your questions I can." He replied, tone as flat as his expression.

She continued as though she hadn't heard him. "From what I understand, the investigators say they have a handful of suspects." Sherlock smiled sardonically, knowing it was a lie. Lestrade had the same way of thinking that every detective had ever had during a murder case: make the killer think you're on to him, and he might slip up, make a hasty, ill-judged mistake. Though, the waitress seemed to gather as much herself, if her next words were any indication. "So… I take that to mean the case has hit a dead-end. You couldn't find anything on his clothing or person that might give an idea about who he was with that night?"

Sherlock gave the slightest tick of his head, indicating that he had not, and she responded with a slow, disbelieving grin.

"Come on," she said. " _You_ must have found something."

"Your confidence in me is heart-warming," He drawled, but she only looked at him in that maddeningly expectant way that seemed unique to her. "Of course I did," he snapped. "But it's all nothing. It leads to _nothing_."

"You're a clever man, Mr Holmes. A dead-end should hardly thwart you," She said it confidently, as though she'd known him all her life; it annoyed him further. "We can work it out… Tell me about it."

He could have laughed at how closely she echoed Watson.

Instead, he gave her a half-irritated, half-suspicious glare. "Why should you care? Go back into your kitchen."

"It'll give me something to think over," she explained simply. "And you should feel rather obliged to interest me, as I'm not allowed to take any more tables until you're on your merry way."

"If you leave me alone, I'll eat and leave." He replied sullenly.

That smile was still stuck on her face. "You're not going to eat that filet, Mr Holmes, though we both know that you _should."_ She said laughingly. "Might as well talk with me, don't you think? Perhaps you'll even figure out that I'm not as prosaic and insolent as you seem determined to believe."

He appeared mildly taken aback as she pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. He then turned his face away resolutely, remarkably uncomfortable with the sudden waves of familiarity practically radiating off her. She could see right away that he meant to ignore her, and she rolled her eyes with an exasperated smile.

"You cannot possibly be so juvenile." She told him, and she watched his jaw work as she hit that particular nerve. "Why did you come here, Mr Holmes? Why did you request me as your server?"

He actually scowled at her, and she blinked at him placidly, saying, "I'm beginning to think you don't know the answer to that yourself."

Sherlock squeezed out the only response that struck him as logical, but even as the words left his mouth he wished he'd just gotten up and walked away. "There isn't much else to do, is there?"

"That's _precisely_ my point, sir." She leaned forward with an amused sort of expression. "Thanks for taking the long way 'round, but now that we're back in the same place, why don't you tell me about that case?"

She drummed her fingertips upon the table, and though she watched him patiently part of him became certain she was mocking him, mimicking his movements.

"I've told you, there's nothing there." He said hotly.

"You said there was nothing on his clothing, did you mean that literally?"

" _Yes_." He hissed.

"No blood, no strands of hair, no fibres?"

"Nothing."

"Then his clothes must have been laundered."

"Yes, and then steamed."

Louisa quirked a brow and hummed thoughtfully. "His shoes?" She prompted, after a pause.

"The tread was scrubbed clean, nothing to find."

"Go on then," She waved him on, grinning slightly. "You know where I'm heading. Fill in the gaps."

Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment, willing down his agitation. "His scalp was washed, the slash over his throat cleaned, personal affects removed."

"Perhaps he wasn't wearing any personal affects," Louisa suggested, but Holmes dismissed it.

"There was evidence of a watch regularly worn on his right wrist, and his tie clip had been removed." He was morphing into something more close to concentration that frustration, she noted with satisfaction, probably falling into his rhythm of explanation. "None of his relations or acquaintance had any information to give about where he was. The hot-spots in the Junction have no recollection of seeing him, and neither do the staff at Ramblers, which I had expected, as I had already gathered that he was never there alive."

"So then he was either taken from his bed on a night he happened to be alone, or he was up to something he wanted to keep private," she was mostly musing aloud by now, unaware that her words brought a critical gleam to the detective's eye as he watched her stare out the window to her right. "I don't suppose he was taken, as his home is quite a distance from Clapham North, I think." She brought her attention back to Holmes, who was quick to mask his interest. "What time was his body found?"

"Quarter after two in the morning." Holmes replied, and though his tone had evened out, Louisa detected a wary current hiding somewhere underneath it, still unsettled beyond his intent manner. "He was murdered at least three hours before that, but he couldn't have been taken from his flat. The building gets far too much traffic through the restaurant on the lobby floor, and the windows in his apartments are all sealed permanently shut."

"Well, why didn't anybody see someone dumping Antoine's body?" she wondered. "There's always at least two people fooling around behind a nightclub at any given time."

"Ramblers closes at two in the morning after Sunday evenings."

"And wouldn't the employees go to the back to spray down mats, or something? Take out the rubbish?"

"One of them did," Sherlock told her. "The one who found the body, to be exact; the killer chose his perfect moment, and slipped away, probably minutes before the body was seen."

The detective sighed through his nostrils, looking suddenly pensive, and now he was talking without any prompts, which was a stage of conversation Louisa had been hoping to reach (she couldn't have said _why,_ exactly, she wanted to reach that stage with him, it just seemed as though something in him made her feel challenged to prove something – probably her narcissism flaring up from the cold outside, like arthritis in a kneecap). "There isn't a way to tell who the killer is. Nowhere within a searchable radius showed any signs of a murder taking place, not a single footprint leading to or away from the back of the nightclub… There's _nothing."_

Louisa allowed the lull of silence to swallow them up, propping her elbow on the table's surface and supporting her chin in her hand. Her eyes swirled over him, taking him in, realising he was lost, somehow.

"The investigators are looking in the wrong direction, you know." She said finally. He glanced up at her. "Apparently you are, as well. Either that, or you haven't been trying very hard."

His gaze intensified. "What?"

"I heard they're looking for anyone who might've had something to gain from the man's death, which isn't necessarily _wrong_ , just a bit vague. _You're_ obviously focused on the concept of a serial killer." She explained matter-of-factly. "This was clearly a professional job."

His first instinct was to refute her; he'd even opened his mouth to do just that, but after a split second's thought he was forced to close his lips. His brows twitched together, making him look even more lost, though she could tell he was merely processing.

Really, he thought, it was so simple, so apparent, even Anderson should have figured it out; the waitress was right.

 _Antoine Douglas was up to something shady before he was killed. They cleaned him thoroughly and wrapped him nice and snug in a body-bag. There isn't a trace of evidence on him, and he was dumped in a completely random location. There's nothing because the process is fool-proof, the work of a paid, experienced man._

These thoughts seemed to narrate themselves in Miss Daly's voice, though the girl never opened her mouth. Her face was also back to that placid mask, but Sherlock was certain that she would have gloated rather openly if she weren't trying so hard to be civil.

"Are you okay, Mr Holmes?" Louisa asked at last, once enough time had passed that she was sure he would never respond on his own.

"I'm perfectly well, Miss Daly." He said. "I'm thinking."

"About the case, I assume," she said hesitatingly; she wasn't particularly fond of the way he was looking at her, as though she were the subject of study.

And, his following words only confirmed those fears.

"About you, actually."

"Well, I recommend you go back to the case. I-"

"It seems you've put quite a bit of thought into the puzzle yourself," he spoke over here, eyes dancing across her face in a way that was hard to ignore. "Why is that?"

"I've… already said," She was nonplussed, he could see. "It's an interesting story."

Even the second time around, her choice of words reminded him of Irene Adler. The Woman.

" _I like detective stories,_ " She had said once. " _And detectives."_

"Have you really never read anything about me, Miss Daly?" He inquired, almost casually.

"Should I have?" The pitch in her voice had gone up, and the confusion she showed was either genuine, or expertly affected.

Sherlock reminded himself of the assessment he had made the first time he met Miss Daly – that she was no liar, but not always honest. Could she by lying now? Did she have an ulterior motive for sitting across from him at this moment, for insisting upon talking over this case she proclaimed to have nothing to do with, beyond a fair amount of interest?

"I'm only wondering if my reputation precedes me," Holmes said, playing aloof.

Could she be trying to impress him, get close to him?

The suspicion in his gaze had increased to a level that was verging on offensive.

"No, never," she said, trying to pick past the façade and see where he was leading her.

"You say this particular case caught your attention through a friend of yours… You never read the papers."

"I do say that," she agreed firmly, perhaps a bit impatiently. "Maggie told me about it. She's seeing a paramedic who was called to take away Antoine's body."

"You refer to the victim by his first name."

She scoffed at him. "It's much less clumsy than making 'Douglas' possessive."

"You're twenty years old, yes?" she nodded, hardly bothering to question how he came to know that. "You've been in London less than three months, and already you feel compelled to involve yourself with solving the murder of a man you never even came close to knowing; an unusual source of intrigue, wouldn't you say?"

He watched her eyebrows raise, her lips pull into a tight, baffled grin.

"You think it's odd I should be interested," she stated, and he returned her smile, though his was more like a smirk, and she felt her cheeks grow hot. "I know this may come as a disappointment to you, but curiosity is as far as my involvement reaches. I'll do you the favour of forgiving your insulting implication."

"It isn't often one comes across young girls so… curious about such things." He pressed, and immediately his lips formed a hard line as she laughed deeply, the sound throaty and musical at the same time.

"What's happened to you that's made you so paranoid?" She asked bluntly, and by the way his shoulders went rigid, the way he immediately dropped his stare, she knew she'd struck another nerve. "Feel free to investigate me, if you must. I'm an open book, Mr Holmes, who just happened to be a little bored."

He reached to his left rather abruptly and pulled the sugar caddy out from behind the dessert menu poised in front of the window. He plucked up a packet of artificial sweetener and flapped it against the table, as though needing to fidget to keep himself in order. Again she noted the hollowness of his cheeks, the way his collarbone seemed to scream from the flesh beneath his open collar, and a surge of sudden pity wiped away her indignant feelings as though they'd never been there. Something had happened to him, of course, and at the moment she felt a little guilty for picking at that wound.

"You need to eat." She told him as she stood, keeping her tone nonchalant.

"What, leaving already?" He sneered, and she fought the urge to take him by the ear. The shock on his face would have been sweet, but the pity was still winning out.

"I'm sure they can use me in the kitchen," she said, plastering on a grin. "Hopefully I've been of use to you as well. Your meal in on the house, of course. If you finish before I see you again, feel free to see yourself out. Or just… sit and think, as you so often do."

She was nearly to the opening of the Greenhouse when she evidently decided she wanted to say more. She turned her head over her shoulder, eyes brimming with something close to concern.

"Seriously, Mr Holmes… You need to eat."

The detective never spared her another glance, but still, she reasoned that this whole interaction could have gone a lot worse. Compared to Monday, they'd gotten on just fine. Regular bosom pals.

Approximately twenty-three minutes later Louisa went back into the Greenhouse to find that Mr Holmes had gone. Under his plate was a ten-pound note, which she pocketed with a serious amount of discomfort; it was not easy to accept money from such a man, and she rather wished he would have given her the chance to decline it.

On top of the plate was the filet, as neglected as the asparagus next to it, as the sad little turkey club that had taken a tumble on Monday. She blew a sigh from between her lips.

"You poor, confused fellow." She breathed, smiling slightly. "Do you even know what you're about?"

* * *

John Watson flung his bag onto his old, faithful armchair, slung his jacket across the back of it, and stalked quickly into the kitchen, the hard _clomp_ of his trainers the only sound in the flat. He held his mobile to his ear, grinning tiredly as he listened to Mary describe the man who had mown her over on the Birdcage Walk only moments ago.

"Big, sneering sort of face he had," she was saying, and from the way her voice changed to something deep he could tell she was mimicking the man's expression with her own features. "He rammed right into me, made eye contact with me, and just kept on his way without a word. Tell me, when did human beings become so deplorable?"

"It's always been in our nature. We all have deplorable days, from time to time."

"I don't."

"No, never you," John agreed with a chortle. He scrunched his head to the side, squeezing the phone between his shoulder and ear as he reached into the over-head cabinet for the package of coffee filters nestled on the first shelf with all the spices the kitchen had to offer. "I hope you plan to track that man down for retribution."

"Are you making coffee?" Mary asked, probably clued in by the tell-tale crinkle of soft plastic as John separated a filter from its brothers.

"I couldn't sleep last night," John told her, and as he took Sherlock's coffee tin from the second shelf he made a mental note to buy another brick before the detective could summon enough interest to complain that John had used so much of his store.

"I knew I felt you get up." She said. "So now your restless nights happen even away from Baker Street."

"I never used to sleep before." John pointed out. "I like to think my body is just readjusting itself to a lifestyle of all-nighters."

"Or _maybe…_ You're worried. And frightened."

John paused in the process of digging a spoon of grounds from the tin. "Worried, I'll allow."

"It's both, I insist."

He scoffed and set the tin down, straightening up as he took the phone back into his hand. "Why would I be frightened?"

"Because," Mary began, obviously choosing her words carefully. "Your best friend committed suicide and you're in peril at the idea he might do it again."

"There's just one small hole in your analysis, Doctor," he said, lips pulling up, though the smile was empty: a defense mechanism. "He never actually killed himself."

"Well, no. He didn't… but, he _did_." She was so gentle, yet firm, like she always got whenever she confronted him, as if she knew how to disarm him. "Somewhere in your mind Sherlock will be dead forever. Some part of you will always be living in that world where he fell to the pavement, John. I know you're not fond of this topic – I mean, I can feel your tension through the phone – so I'll only say this one little thing…" she trailed off, silently asking.

John shut his eyes, nostrils flaring with a soft sigh of acquiescence. "What's the thing?"

"Stop fighting that part of existence, just let it be there." She said readily. "If you accept it, you'll be allowed to actually accept the reality of his return, you'll allow yourself to be happy about it."

"That hardly makes sense."

"Perhaps not, but you understand." He could hear her smile, and he felt his own visage soften in automatic response.

"Naturally."

They said goodbye, after agreeing on which takeout would serve for dinner, and apparently the timing was perfect; as if on cue Sherlock slipped into the flat, apparently in the process of opening a black leather computer bag as he strode directly for his desk. He slid a laptop from the bag and opened it as he set it in front of him, and John finished preparing his coffee, watching him and thinking of what Mary had said.

As the drip began to fall in earnest, the coffee pot filling with dark brown liquid, John called, "Is that what you were doing for lunch, then?"

Sherlock turned his head, but his eyes never left the computer screen. "When did you get in?"

"A few minutes before you did," John said, knowing that he was being only half-listened to. "The laptop – what's that about?"

"It belonged to Antoine Douglas." Was the curt reply.

"The dead man?"

Sherlock's fingers curled away from the keyboard, neck flexing in agitation as he turned it to look at John. "Wasn't that obvious?"

"Well, I assumed – "

"Then why did you ask?"

John huffed silently and seriously, staring at Sherlock until the detective rolled his eyes and went back to the laptop.

On a hunch John ventured to the refrigerator, snatching down a bag of breakfast muffins from the pile of bread on top of it and cutting one in half, knowing he would never be able to convince Sherlock to eat two. He plunged the halves into the toaster next to the coffee pot and twisted the bag shut with a flourish, tossing it back where it belonged. As the toaster worked its magic he poured his mug of coffee, feeling rather grave.

For days on end Sherlock's mood had been on a steady decline, and while his lack of eating definitely had a great deal to do with it, John was well aware there would never be a resolution to the storm until Sherlock had the chance to make his comeback.

The detective glanced up for perhaps half a second as John set a plate next to the laptop, the screen of which still displayed the locked image. Sherlock eyed the muffin, cut open and swiped with a fair amount of strawberry preserves, and then he looked at the back of John's head as the doctor went back into the kitchen once again.

John took his coffee from the counter and turned to lean against it as he sipped, his expression still grim.

Sherlock mentally shrugged and leaned back in his chair, picking up a muffin and biting it into a crescent.

"I thought there was nothing at the end of this one," John began. "So what are you looking for?"

"So far I've looked through call records and Lestrade has interviewed the victim's close friends, etcetera. I found out from the building manager of his flat that Douglas never went home that night, but on one seems to know where he was, etcetera. It's enough to make one believe he was alone that night… I looked through his agenda, I searched his body, and, not a thing came up that was out of place." His tone switched to something sullen as he chewed and spoke with a full mouth. "It appears to me now, however, that I've only been examining a certain angle of possibilities, rather than all of them."

"I don't know what that means."

"I've been looking for signs of a serial-killing, when the evidence already strongly supports an execution." He took another bite of the muffin, looking, oddly enough, highly bitter.

"What, like a hit?" John asked.

"Exactly like a hit." Sherlock dusted the crumbs from his fingertips over the plate on the desk. "Lestrade tells me Donovan has looked into the professional dynamic of the victim's workplace, to pinpoint anyone who might've had a level to gain from his death, to see if anyone knew of any enmity between Douglas and any particular person, but that's a gray area in and of itself; he was a popular man, which naturally made him widely abhorred, but still, no one had any clue of unusual conflict in his personal or professional life, which is partly why I assumed a run-in with a common psychopath was what led to his death. Then, again, _he was a popular man_ , which meant that Douglas needn't have spent a single night in the week alone, if he didn't wish it. He went somewhere on Sunday night, either in the company of someone, or on his way to meet someone; but he said not a word about it. There isn't a trace of phone calls made or received by his number, after a call made to his assistant to make sure a certain light had been ordered for the stage of his theatre at three p.m."

"Well, is that so odd?" John put in. "Perhaps he fancied a night on his own. Even minor celebrities take off a Sunday every once in a while."

"I never thought to look for a pattern in the call logs." Sherlock muttered, in a way that ensured John he'd been partially ignored. "I didn't see it, and I never thought to look, but there is an enigma: twice a month, sometimes three, Antoine Douglas spent a night without picking up his mobile a single time. One the way to his flat I dug around his social media profiles – the man had _four,_ Watson – and he went dark on them as well, on nights that correspond with the periods on the call logs that show no contact. Douglas reached the remarkable average of twenty-two posts and shares on his Facebook profile, but twice a month he can't be bothered to fill his adoring public in about the microbrew hobby he's recently taken up. No, John, if he fancied a night to himself, he would undoubtedly catalogue every moment of it, as a cursory glance at his Twitter account can very well attest to."

"Okay, so he ghosts." John came into the sitting room and stood on the opposite end of the table Sherlock examined the laptop at. "How does that lead to a hit?"

"Whatever he was doing that night put him under the radar of whomever ordered the hit to begin with. Twice a month he involved himself in situations he couldn't post about. Do you see?"

"Yes. Is that why you have the laptop? Figuring out what he's up to, and all that?"

"It could have been many things," Sherlock affirmed by inclining his head. "Maybe he was in with a kingpin, maybe he was a conman, perhaps trafficking."

"Trafficking. Really? Is that an actual possibility for a theatre director?"

"They're _all_ actual possibilities, John, based upon what I know about him." Sherlock reached for last half of the muffin Watson had made for him. His eyes were alight, and for a moment John felt so content that he marked the feeling to think on later. "I had a look round his flat, remember, after I picked up the computer. The place was as lavish as they come. He had a bedei toilet, for Heaven's sake. Antoine Douglas was much more than a theatre director… The one frayed thread is that his mobile was found in his jacket pocket, right where it belonged. One can readily assume the killer took everything that might have led back to him, if the complete wash-down is any indication, so why was a watch and a tie clip more important to hide than a mobile? Any clue as to what business Douglas had involved himself would most certainly be found first in a smartphone than any accessory he might have worn, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock stared at John – looking through him, really – so that he hardly saw the way the doctor scrunched his forehead, apparently putting hard thought into the question he'd been posed. Still, though, a dim part of Sherlock's consciousness was reserved for the amusement at the image of John attempting to kick himself into gear.

Then, quite out of nowhere, the answer came to him.

"Separate phone," he blurted, abruptly enough to make John start.

"Sorry?"

"He had another phone, the killer took that one. He probably had time to search through both the regular phone and the private one while the victim's body and clothes were being taken care of."

"The murderer would have been the one taking care of it, though." John pointed out.

"No. He has a team for that." Sherlock refuted quickly, and certainly. "The work is too thorough, to consistent to have been done by one set of hands in as little time as two hours – allowing for the time for Douglas to be taken, and then dumped outside Ramblers. Picking and scrubbing the tread of his shoes, washing and steaming his clothes, rinsing his scalp, his body. It was methodical, down to the way they wrapped him up and put him in what I assume was a completely random location. All this points to a corporation with a long-established foundation. A company of trained and paid killers, experienced, probably with a wide reach. Yes… definitely an organisation."

"Now all you need is that password," John indicated the laptop, which still displayed the lock screen, a thin black rod blinking steadily in a one-line text box. "Any deductions about what that might be?"

Sherlock straightened up in his chair, fingers poised neatly over the keyboard for just a beat before typing in four strokes. He pressed Enter, the loading icon appearing over the cursor, and in a flash the Desktop screen opened.

John uttered laughter. "Brilliant. What was it?"

"'Wigs'," Sherlock answered, an ounce of his usual pride showing on his lips. "Short for _Wigs and Parties_ , the first original play produced at the Bataneaux Theatre with Douglas as its Director. It was a hit, one that he was proud of, as he had a copy of a critic's review framed over the desk in his study. Really, he must've wanted someone to figure out his password. I'm convinced the majority of people subconsciously do, considering the lack of real thought put into most security codes."

"If you knew it, why did it take you so long to type it in?" John asked.

"Because I already know I'll find nothing more on this computer than a lead to another lead. If his mobile was immaculate enough to be left with him, his computer is most likely in the same state." Sherlock hovered the cursor over the documents tab in the lower tool-bar. He double-clicked. "The man was too private with anything involved in the cause of his murder."

"He was private in a lot of things," John offered. "He had all those secret parties, after all. I read about a few of them."

"If they were secret, then how did you read about them?" Sherlock said sharply, as though John was the thickest individual he had ever addressed. "They were _exclusive_ parties, John. And I've already thought about them." He took little more than a sweeping glance over the list of documents before closing the window and pulling up the Applications grid. "They are the only reason I went through the effort of taking this computer in the first place."

Sherlock opened the email application, allowing another half-smile to tilt his lips as he found that Douglas was still logged into his account. He probably could have gotten in anyway, even if Douglas failed to break the mold most millennials fell into, of using the same pass-code for every protected aspect, but it was much faster this way.

"What do you mean?" John inquired, and if he hadn't been so satisfied to see Sherlock applying himself, he might've grown tired by now of the proclivity his friend had of stacking each explanation so that they usually required at least a half-dozen questions to get the bulk of.

Holmes didn't answer for a very long time; for minutes on end John was forced into sipping his coffee patiently, watching Sherlock click in a frenzy, breaking only in short bursts of quick typing.

Then, at last, when John was just beginning to consider sitting down, Sherlock grasped the screen of the laptop, gently yet swiftly flipping it around so that she screen faced the doctor.

John bent a little at the waist, squinting to distinguish the thin black writing of the letter spanning the screen.

He read the email aloud in a monotone, "'No, it was great. Look forward to coming again, although next time I'll probably avoid your bedroom, winky-face emoticon." He looked up at Sherlock, his face absolutely void of perception. "Okay…"

"The email doesn't matter, look at the name," Sherlock advised.

"Claressa Thomaston?"

"You'll interview her,"

"I thought his friends had already been interviewed," John said.

"This email was a reply to a message sent from Douglas four months ago, asking if she enjoyed the 'festivities'. Based upon the context of the rest of the message, I can assume he was referring to one of his reputed get-togethers… Douglas was a notorious womaniser, was he not?"

"According to the papers," John affirmed.

"I found a note underneath the refrigerator in his kitchen-" Sherlock broke off to pull a folder from the same black bag from which he'd produced the laptop. He let it fall open in his left palm, the fingers of his right hand rifling through what looked like the critic's review the detective had mentioned earlier, a certificate for a degree from some university or another, and a few more bits of indistinguishable slips of information until he found what he was looking for. He held out a shift of cream-coloured paper between his index and middle fingers, and John plucked it up as Sherlock closed the folder and tossed it towards a collection of messy papers and organisers.

"'Went for coffee, Clare,'"

"Does reading text aloud aid in your comprehension of it?" Sherlock wondered, feigning curiosity.

"No, I-"

"Then stop with that, will you?" He said, and John's lips pursed in instant response. "That note was originally stuck to the refrigerator door, and had been swept underneath some time before I found it. Judging by the collection of dust the paper had, I'd say somewhere between one to two weeks."

"So, she saw him more than once."

"She saw him regularly," Sherlock amended. "She was comfortable enough to leave him a note, which suggests she had reason to believe he would miss her if she'd gone without his knowledge."

Sherlock dropped the email window with a click and went online. He typed Claressa Thomaston's name into the search bar and fell into his reading.

"She's a highly regarded theatre actress, aged twenty-five, known for getting her break two years ago from playing Cosette in the Bataneaux's production of _Les Miserables."_ Sherlock shut the laptop. "She's since moved on to television writing for the BBC."

"Right. Where can I find her?"

"Her address isn't publicly displayed, apparently, but Lestrade will be able to find out for you. I suppose you could show up at her office, but I believe a private conversation would be more conducive to getting her to talk." Sherlock's attention suddenly fell to the mug in John's hands as he continued. "She was quiet about the relationship to begin with, and she has so far avoided coming to the police since his death."

"Maybe she wasn't close enough to him to have any information." John suggested, adding as he saw Sherlock's pointed stare of preserved patience, "It might've been a casual thing. People do that these days, Sherlock. Friends with benefits, you know, that sort of thing. A note left on the fridge doesn't necessarily mean commitment."

His expression was disdainful, but all Sherlock said was, "Doubtful,"

John shook his head and stifled his sarcasm. "Why don't you come along?"

It wasn't a particularly _good_ idea; Sherlock had a way of putting people out of the mood for confidence. Yet, for whatever reason, John preferred to see the detective active.

"I'm not finished here," Sherlock indicated the black leather bag, and John wondered what else he'd managed to fit in there. "Is there more coffee?"

"I can make you some," John said, and as he went for the kitchen he called, "this is turning into a good one, isn't it?"

"Perhaps too good," Sherlock muttered, so that John didn't even hear him, and assumed he had simply been tuned out.

Sherlock pressed his palms together, supporting his elbows on the surface of his desk. He let his fingers rest against his lips, brows set firmly over closed eyes.

Only now could he admit that he had hardly tried at the start of this case; he felt a nauseating sense of disgust, even, at the way he'd traipsed onto and away from the scene, with the same lacklustre mentality of Anderson and all the rest; he'd overlooked everything, had even allowed them to dictate the direction of the investigation, and since when had he ever done that?

It had taken a sodding _waitress_ to shake his synapses awake, a little girl who resembled a bumblebee in her black uniform and yellow apron.

It definitely smarted.

It was confounding, really. There was something going on with him, he could feel it, almost always… Most strongly at night, during those waning moments of consciousness before he fell into sleep, but even during waking hours it was there – a knock at the end of a long corridor of mind-matter – a steady hammering, beating a small tattoo against a door that was, by all accounts, locked to Sherlock completely.

There were many corridors in Sherlock Holmes' mind, some of which had rooms where he kept his people, where he kept conjecture, theory and memory. He believed he knew everything, believed _everyone_ knew everything, the only roadblocks to knowledge coming in the form of inability to navigate one's way to the door of information they needed to find; Sherlock could only register and utilise the information behind those doors that opened to him, those doors he could locate. He was significantly more adept at opening his doors than the average man, but this particular sealed opening, behind which that incessant knocking sounded, perpetually refused him entry.

Of course there had been other areas of Sherlock's mind that locked themselves away, but none had bothered him so potently as the one that beat the tattoo. It was clouding his mind, he realised now – had realised for some time – as he listened vaguely to John's soft noises from the kitchen; the knocking, he was convinced, was the culprit that had made him stumble at the beginning of Antoine Douglas' murder.

After several minutes Sherlock came out of his head to find that he was staring at a chipped green mug poised in front of his face. He took it, deciding now that he no longer wanted coffee, but knowing he would drink it anyway.

Watson grinned slightly and took his jacket from the back of his old armchair.

"Did you phone Lestrade?" Sherlock inquired.

"Texted him," the doctor shrugged his jacket on, adjusting the sleeves. "He'll probably call me when I finally manage to catch a cab. He's pretty quick with his work."

"Yes, he is rather obedient, isn't he?" Sherlock gave an approving sort of look, remembering with a strong sense of gratification that Lestrade had nearly cried the day Sherlock revealed himself to the investigator, alive and well. "It must be nice for him to have a sense of direction again."

John gave a puff of laughter, wanting to say something admonishing, but finding that he wasn't willing to part with that small bit of effort.

"Try not to flirt with her, will you?" Sherlock mocked.

"I've gotten my flirting-quotient filled for the day with Mary, thanks," John said emphatically. And when Sherlock only tossed his head John was forced into admonishment after all. "She's my girlfriend, Sherlock, if you recall."

"How could I forget," Holmes drawled, and John turned to leave, shaking his head in frustration. Sherlock pressed his lips into a hard line as he watched the doctor draw closer to the door. John's palm fell against the old, dulled handle, and just as he started to turn it Sherlock mumbled something John couldn't quite make out.

"Say again?" he said, turning to look.

"Will you be returning tonight?"

John didn't answer for a long moment, stalled by something almost… _forlorn_ in the detective's perfectly blank visage.

"Of course," he said brightly, thinking wistfully of the pad Thai he and Mary had agreed upon. She wouldn't mind, of course; she never minded when John was made to duck out of their plans, always eager to hear about progress with the detective who hadn't even deigned to see her since he'd crashed their romantic dinner at the end of last month.

But John minded, most especially because he knew Sherlock would never appreciate Mary's intense, almost baffling sense of affection for him, as long as he remained determined to think of her relationship with John as little more than a passing fling.

Sherlock inclined his head, giving nothing away, but John was sure he was pleased. He stepped into the outer passage and took the stairs quickly, waving off Mrs Hudson as she tottered into the lower foyer with appeals for him to take in a spot of tea with her.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

Hello again, my fine friends. I know this update is a couple of days late, but hopefully you'll be satisfied with this chapter. Again, I put a lot of thought into it, and I'm following a pretty strict plot, so if it seems slow-moving, just remember, the slowest journeys have the best outcomes!

Haha, I don't quite know about that, actually, but it's always nice to expostulate a bit of confidence, wouldn't you say?

Thank you, you four beautiful people, who reviewed my story. The feedback was greatly appreciated, and looking at them gave me the kick I needed to continue writing this story. Still, though, my anxious personality has me convinced it's a boring pile of sop. Just let me know if you've got any criticism! Any kind words are also always valued.

Thank you,

Emily.


	3. Idle Mind and the Floundering Genius

**As the Starling Says ****Volume One**

 **Chapter Three**

* * *

The inky black cab swerved into a clumsy three-point turn that clogged the road as John Watson stood where he had been deposited onto the pavement. His mouth was in a grimace of distaste after the car, the boot of which was now chugging indifferently back the way it had come. That driver had been one of the rudest individuals John had ever come across in his life – second only to Sherlock Holmes – yet even so John had been unable to bring himself to the level of righteous anger needed to keep from tipping the wanker.

 _We all have detestable days…_ he'd told Mary. "Right." John murmured softly, rotating to look at where he'd ended up. "Detestable _life_ that bloke has led, I'd say."

The building was like something out of a catalogue, creamy white with smoothened bricks, clean steps and impeccable paned windows. Its size was moderate, flanked on either side by houses nearly identical to it, spanning for as long as the block would allow; the only variations to the houses were how the front steps were decorated, how some of the windows were adorned with things like sill-planters and others were left bare. The street received a fair amount of traffic, and a smattering of people flitted around John on the walk, but Cosgrove Avenue was situated close enough to the Strand that John would have expected more.

He galloped up the front steps of the house in question, 1684, and rang the bell, feeling as though he had shelled out an extra six quid just to be barked at.

A few moments of uncertain waiting passed before the sound of a chain unlatching could be heard from the other side of the door, the blurred silhouette of a figure appearing behind the ornate frosted glass. The door was opened, and a remarkably pretty young woman was leaning through it, looking wary.

"Yes?" She greeted, her voice husky and low.

"Claressa Thomaston?" He asked, giving his best charming smile.

She didn't answer him, instead following up with a question of her own, "Who are you, sir?"

"My name is Doctor John Watson." He reached out a hand to shake hers, and when she met him in the gesture he smiled again. "Might I take up a few minutes of your time, Miss Thomaston?"

Her eyelashes fluttered, for the moment evidently stuck between wanting to question him further, and the compulsion for manners.

"Of course," Propriety it was then. "May I ask what for?" Perhaps not.

"I was wondering if you might have any information about a man called Antoine Douglas." John started, and it wasn't lost on him the way the woman folded her arms over her chest as he went on. "I'm trying to find out anything I can that might lend some light to his recent murder."

"Why would you come to me?"

"I understand you were involved with Mr Douglas, that the two of you shared a close friendship." John answered, rather hesitatingly; he wanted to be delicate, but her questions were too straightforward to mosey around.

"How would the police would know something like that?" she demanded, and she angled herself so that she was half-concealed behind the shelter of her front door.

"I'm not with the police, miss," John hurriedly reminded her. "I'm a physician, I have a medical practice." He was prepared to take out his wallet and show her his card, if he had to; people were typically less hostile once they were certain he wasn't on the force, he found.

"Okay?" Her forehead crinkled with vexation. "So, what's a _doctor_ up to, trying to solve a murder? I wouldn't peg such a thing as your area of expertise."

John smiled wryly and took a breath. "Miss Thomaston, is there any way we can discuss this inside?"

She pushed the door forwards in response, as though a muscle-twitch away from shutting it on him altogether. John stepped closer, hand outstretched, and bumbled a quick apology. "No, I'm sorry. Give me a moment to explain." The woman widened her eyes by a considerable amount, and John had just enough time to think to himself that this interview was not going quite as well as he'd hoped. "I've truly got no real affiliation with the police. I collaborate with the investigative team from New Scotland Yard on occasion, but my primary work is done with a private-investigator by the name of Sherlock Holmes."

"Hang on," the door swung open by a fraction, her interest captured. "D'you mean the Reichenbach Falls bloke? The one constantly covered in the news a few years ago?"

"Yes."

"Well… he's dead, isn't he?"

"No, no." John chuckled awkwardly, trying to sound casual even as he said something as admittedly ludicrous as, "He was only pretending to be dead. But, he's very much alive and his name has been irrefutably cleared of all fraud-charges."

" _Fraud charges?"_ Thomaston exclaimed and John's mouth fell into a grim line at his mistake.

"Don't worry, I said he _isn't_ a phony. He's been cleared, thoroughly cleared. And if you know anything about Sherlock, you know that he rarely fails to solve a case, and anyone who helps him in his search is handled with utmost discretion."

Thomaston's visage uttered an expression of unabridged befuddlement. "Can a man like that _be_ discreet?"

"Well, you wouldn't think so, would you?" Another painful chortle. "Discretion is practically in his internal coding, Miss Thomaston. Sherlock is more computer than man, really. You're in safe hands with us." John gave her a moment, hoping she might be able to process. Then he went on, "May I come in? Really, I just have a few questions. If anything I have to say makes you uncomfortable, you're under no obligation to answer. You can even chuck me out, it's all on your terms."

It seemed to take ages, Thomaston's face screwed up in deliberation so blatant that it was almost insulting. Then, finally, she stepped aside, and John scuttled over the threshold quickly before she could change her mind.

The house was clean, well-decorated in a range of colour from a deep russet orange to banana yellow, like the sun met the horizon in every room John could see from the foyer. There was a staircase that wound up from the wall to John's left to a second story where her bedroom and toilet were probably situated, and as she led him through a wide passage into the sitting room, he wondered at how a young theatre actress had come by the funds to keep such an obviously high-end townhouse in the heart of Westminster. It occurred to him that perhaps Douglas had a hand in paying for it, but that he would have needed to know more about the relationship if he was going to be conclusive.

Plus, on the right wall of the passage there was a collection of framed photographs that John turned his eye over as he went by them, and there was more than one which featured an older couple he easily presumed were her parents, based on resemblance. Everything about the regal-looking woman and the straight-shouldered gentleman seemed to scream "old-money", a portion of which might have provided Claressa with her rather comfortable lifestyle.

And, then again, Sherlock had mentioned that she worked for a writing team on the beeb, so if she was high enough in the network, it was possible that she could afford to live here on her own dime. _Sherlock would know_ , John seemed to taunt himself, but he shoved the thought away from his mind.

Thomaston offered him an armchair upholstered in smooth crimson linen weave, and sat across from him on the sofa. Between them was a low glass coffee table, upon which a wicker basket of magazines were laid neatly. In the back of John's mind, once again, he could picture how Sherlock would have turned his eyes round the room and collected much more context of Miss Thomaston than that she came from a wealthy background. The magazine at the top of the stack between them in and of itself might have clued the genius in to where she attended Uni, or how often she went to the supermarket, but all John could see were magazines. A person's home is typically the essence of who they are, John was aware, but his mind could better tell that she kept a strict, healthy diet and committed herself to a regular work-out routine, and that was pretty much the extent of it.

"I don't mean to be obstructive, Doctor Watson," Miss Thomaston broke the silence. "It just strikes me as odd. How did Mr Holmes even know I was seeing Antoine? We never spoke about it to anyone, never texted or emailed each other over the topic."

John visualised the email Sherlock had shown him, reasoning that the actress simply forgot about that unique instance. "I haven't a clue how he knows," John lied easily. "He only asked me to speak with you."

She pursed her lips, clearly dissatisfied with his answer. He supposed he could have mentioned the note she left Douglas on his refrigerator, but the note hadn't even used her full first name. Thomaston would have wanted to know how Sherlock had gleaned the rest, and going through that rigmarole would only take them further away from what they needed to be discussing, would really only put her even more on edge. To keep the semantics from stretching John launched a question of his own.

"Why _was_ there such secrecy over your relationship?"

For the moment the deflection worked; Thomaston stalled in her own suspicions and seemed to evaluate how best to answer.

"It was complicated," she began. "Tony wanted the privacy at first, because of his reputation. After getting closer to him, I sort of started thinking along the same lines about it. The media is always determined to make a spectacle of him, you know. It got him into a lot of trouble, apparently, so he wanted to keep a low profile. Once I started to see that up close, I wanted to avoid the exposure as much as he did."

"I assume you met Mr Douglas while acting at the Bataneaux, is that right?"

"No, I met him completely by chance." She said. "I was working at a coffee shop, I couldn't find work anywhere else. Tony came in nearly every day, and we would talk sometimes. He found out I'd studied acting for a while and invited me to read for a secondary role on _Mama Mia."_

"Had you always been… close with him?" John asked tactfully, earning a chuckle from her.

"God no," she snorted. "I worked on _Mama Mia_ for a little over a year before I was offered the part of Cosette in _Les Mis_ , and we got to know each other a little more at that point. We would flirt on occasion, but that was it. I lost touch with acting and got hired on as an assistant to Laura Prepenrich of BBC, and I lost touch with Tony as well. We had a flimsy friendship, I'd never thought all that much of him as anything more than a man who gave me a hand up when I needed one. Eventually I was brought onto the writing team for _Beneath the Branches,_ and when it became a permanent position Tony somehow got wind of it; he got into contact with me, invited me out to celebrate, and it just sort of went from there."

John's brows began to meet as he listened to her, picking up on an oddity that was just obscure enough to keep him from identifying it. He went on with the question in his foremost thoughts, but he was more intent now.

"Did he ever ask you to a party he threw himself?"

Her eyes ticked away from his. "Yes, he did. Before you ask, yes, it was one of his quiet gatherings."

"And you went?"

"Yes, I went."

"Was it just the once?"

"No, I attended a few of them."

"Can you tell me what sort of things happened at the parties you attended?"

She took a long pause before answering. "I can, but I'm afraid I might disappoint you, Doctor Watson," She settled back into the sofa, as though strapping in for the ride, crossing one leg over the other. "There are mad rumours about those parties, I know. None of them are true."

"I haven't heard any rumours," John lied, and the flash of a smile arched over her lips, as if she could tell.

"Lurid sex-orgies, experimentations, rampant drug-use… I even heard one about a human sacrifice to Ba'al." She counted off her fingers and rolled her eyes at the recollections. "The only slice of gossip that was even a shred authentic was that bit about Ewan McGregor getting pissed and cutting off the tip of his little finger trying to make everyone his ratatouille."

John laughed heartily. "No, I certainly never heard that one." He said. "Were you there for it?"

She smiled again, this one appearing genuine. "I was. It was horrifying at the time."

"I imagine so," John chuckled again. "Okay, so no insanity, for the most part. What _did_ happen at the parties? What were they like?"

"They were small. Perhaps only twenty, _maybe_ twenty-five people at best, mostly repeat visitors. Sometimes new faces would appear, and old ones wouldn't show, but the guest list was pretty consistent." She said, and though John expected her to continue, that seemed to be all she wanted to say.

"How regular were they?" John asked, reckoning he ought to circle back by another way.

"It's hard to say. They seemed random to me, but I can tell you I went to four in the span of…" She blew a soft breath from her lips as she calculated. "Perhaps five months?"

"Do you recall ever coming into contact with anyone who seemed a bit off? Suspicious in any way?" She answered him in a negative, as he'd thought she would. It was clear that she didn't want to talk about the details of the goings-on at the quiet get-togethers, but there was always the chance to throw her off her defenses just enough to scrap a tiny bit more information. He threw out another query. "Were there ever any fights? People tend to brawl whenever drinks flow, after all."

"If there were any, they never happened when I was around," she said easily.

"Lots of dancing, loud music?"

"They were quiet," she said, hesitating. "Conversation was typically the main focus of the evening."

"Any topics in particular?"

"None that should interest you," was the almost cold reply. Thomaston broke off to ponder for a moment, before adding in a much politer tone, "I can't think of anything that might aid you in the investigation."

"Okay, I understand," John nodded. "Can you tell me what sort of guest list was typical for the parties? I've read about a few people who were left out, but who went to them? Besides Ewan McGregor, of course."

She only levelled a gaze at him, and John squashed his impatience the moment he felt it flare.

"I'm not asking for names, just a general idea." He clarified. "Were the guests like you and Douglas? Or were they mostly celebrities like McGregor?"

"I would say a mixture of both, equally."

John found himself thinking back to a day about two years ago, perhaps a week before Sherlock went on the lam… The detective had rounded on an elderly woman who owned the children's school Moriarty had had those kids snatched from. He'd bellowed in her face and yanked the scarf from over her neck, scaring her into quick, informative speech, and for the briefest of moments the memory tempted John to threaten Thomaston, just to see if it really worked. Perhaps the only reason he didn't was that John was sure he lacked the persona needed to pull it off.

"Okay, so then, back to the basics, eh?" he shifted in his seat, attempting a more comfortable position though the armchair was too firm for him to relax completely. "Were you exclusive with Antoine? Was he ever seeing anyone else?"

For a heartbeat Thomaston looked a shade offended, but she must have considered it a fair question as she replied, "I'd like to think Tony was committed, but obviously I'll probably never know for sure," she slid a glance at him that suggested she blamed Watson for planting seeds of doubt. "As for myself, I never saw anyone else."

"I see," for a while John sat there, hands braced awkwardly just above his knees. "Well, Miss Thomaston, I appear to be out of questions for you." Silently he added, _Questions that you'll answer, anyway._

Right away she was on her feet.

"Alright, well I hope you've gotten what you needed." Before he could respond, she was herding him towards the foyer, though John wasn't sorry for it; what could he possibly have responded with?

Thomaston went as far as to open the door for him, unabashedly pleased to see the back of the doctor's head.

As John's feet hit the pavement outside the neat little townhouse it occurred to him now that he hadn't even spent ten minutes inside. He checked the clock on his phone before calling Mary, deciding to kill some time before hailing a taxi to Baker Street; going back empty-handed might just be easier if he pretended to have dedicated more than ten minutes to the task.

* * *

"You _have_ to let me in," the sound of rolling tyres nearly drowned the voice on the other end of the speaker, but Melissa Stein knew how to make herself heard. "You always let me in."

Louisa held her finger to the intercom button and shared a smile with the warmly-bundled Margaret on her sofa. "And each time I do you break something." She said reproachfully, and Maggie giggled. "You still owe me a vase, a kettle, and money for that carpet man I had to bring in for your wine stain."

"That wasn't a break, it was a spill, and all of them were accidents."

"You're a _walking_ accident, Mel!" Maggie trilled gleefully.

"Seriously, it's bloody frigid out here. It's all wet and I'm miserable." Mel complained vehemently.

Louisa took a pause that was just long enough to be the perfect touch of dramatic, but really she was sympathetic, as her own sinuses were completely wonky, her throat sore. "Okay, fine. But you'll stay glued to the sofa and if you think I'm too nice to enforce that rule you'll find yourself on the street before you know it."

She pressed the button to send the signal to unlock the front entrance of the building, and unlatched the lock over her own door. She settled next to Maggie on the sofa after nearly tripping over the power cable connected to a space-heater Maggie had forced her to dig out of the cupboard next to her bedroom.

"You _do_ realise this is hardly Fall weather, don't you?" Louisa said as Mel's loud tromp was heard coming from the ground level. Her own body might have given in to the season, but she was determined not to let it bother her. "You're both acting as though we're in the depth of Russian winter."

"The rain makes it colder." Maddie countered, and they both turned their attention to the front door as Mel barreled through it, a bottle of pinot grigio cradled in the crook of her elbow like an infant.

"Well if I'd known you had that I would've taken your case." Maggie joked, and Mel shot her the sort of look that said she didn't find it funny.

"Got anything to open this with?" She asked Louisa, before turning towards the kitchen.

Louisa leapt to her feet.

"No! No, I'll get it Mel. You have a seat and get comfortable." She grasped Mel's shoulders from behind and redirected her into the sitting area, where she settled in Louisa's old spot with a disgruntled expression.

Louisa opened the drawer under her bread-box and fished around for quite some time, knowing there had to be a corkscrew in there _somewhere_. She'd bought one just a month ago, specifically for this purpose; her friends were drinkers, which meant she needed to be at least semi-prepared.

"Can't some people open a bottle of wine with a knife?" She asked she called, growing impatient. Then finally, she saw it, seized it, and brought it to the counter, which looked out into the sitting room, with the bottle of pinot. She jammed the metallic point of the screw into the soft cork as she watched Melissa and Maggie squabbled over the blanket.

It occurred to her, not for the first time, that she had made a home in London, dreary London. This flat was completely hers (well, except for the fact that she rented it, but it was _her_ money which paid that rent), the corkscrew in her hand was hers, and the blanket being snatched between Maggie and Mel was hers as well. She was tackling adulthood as though the concept were a verb. She even had her own stationary, and a shopping list stuck to her refrigerator with a whimsical magnet she bought on a sudden (and very adult) fancy from the supermarket.

Louisa had finally reached a point where she provided for herself completely, and while she'd always pictured making a life for herself this way, it could no longer be ignored that at some point she'd had the genuine and _highly_ repressed fear that she would tank the whole thing completely. And though the outcome she could see and feel around her struck a fierce sort of pride in her heart, there was a drop of dissatisfaction that was just strong enough to send a ripple through the pond from time to time.

Louisa went to the overhead cabinet with the frosted glass fixed through the centre and took down two wine glasses (purchased on the same night as the corkscrew, along with a board game called _Parcheesi_ that happened to catch her eye), contemplating half-heartedly, truthfully a little afraid to look any deeper.

When she first made the leap into the Kingdom, she had absolutely expected to find a fair amount of boredom skulking about her brain like a shut-in which would not be gotten rid of until she could find a more substantial form of stimulation; she'd prepared for it by bringing along every book from home that could fit in two boxes, having the rest shipped to her by the housekeeper (the only woman aside from Louisa's mother who could possibly be trusted to undertake such a task). She'd taken along her painting easels, had made it her personal mission to buy watercolours from a local craft shop within the first week of her arrival, and nestled away in her armoire was a binder full of crochet patterns she'd always loved but never gotten around to completing. She bought more books regularly from the Red Light – which Laurence was inexplicably flattered by – and a brand new notebook, bound in painted leather, with a beautiful floral design done over it by hand, so that she could work on one of the many novels she'd started over the years since she was around seven years old.

So far she'd read all of her books, started a throw blanket for Kitty's Christmas gift (which was now stuffed into the armoire on top of the aforementioned binder for the time being), and painted a useless, ugly landscape with a cabin that resembled a giant clay pot, which she hadn't even felt much like painting from the start. The only avenue for recreation she hadn't even set foot on was the notebook, which lay untouched in the drawer of her writing desk since the day she'd put it there. That in and of itself was telling enough; it was a screaming clue to something that would only get worse if she didn't find a way to solve the elusive issue.

There was only one other period in Louisa's life that she had been unable to bring herself to write, and that had been during the weeks that preceded her brother's departure for University. The day she returned with her family from Dublin, after leaving Quinlan to his new dormitory, she'd sat at her table and written a short story about a girl who'd gotten trapped in the Internet.

Nine years had passed since then without a single dry spell, not even the _hint_ of a dry spell. Tomorrow, the first of October, would mark her second month in London and she hadn't even looked at that notebook.

Writing for classes didn't count, obviously. Taking on a prompted subject had become second-nature to her long ago. But the inspiration, the motivation for picking up her pen and creating her own sentences was so buried deeply that she couldn't, apparently, be bothered to find it.

She was lucky to be here, but there was something missing. It was hard to ignore that feeling as she poured Mel's cheap pinot into the first glass, hard to bow away that realisation that she had fallen into an age-old cliché of coming into a big, sprawling city in search of something that she wouldn't have been able to identify if she came upon it.

"D'you have any snacks?" Called Maggie. "Haven't eaten since three."

"Make some of those little sandwiches again," Mel joined with her suggestion as Louisa opened the cupboard door for a party-sized bag of crisps.

"I have these, and it's all you'll get from me," She ripped the bag open and emptied its contents into a bowl from another cabinet. She put the bowl next to the wine and beckoned them over. "I don't have it in me to make sandwiches."

Mel and Maggie heaved themselves from the comfort of the sofa and within a heartbeat they were crowding around the counter, the blanket forgotten for the moment; it can be hard to make a crowd of two people, but the girls made it work without a hitch.

"Before I forget again," Maggie addressed Louisa, wine glass perched almost demurely in her hand. "Will you _please_ cover my dinner shift on Saturday? I'm hoping to make plans."

"I close on Saturday, Maggie," Louisa said, her expression somewhat disbelieving. "I literally work with you every weekend."

"Oh. Well, my days sort of run together now that I'm not in school." Maggie said airily, but still Louisa wondered how something to consistent could have been missed. Maggie looked hopeful once more as she tried, "How about tomorrow, then? You're definitely not working lunch."

"You're right, and I put in a lot of effort to reach that luxury." Louisa said firmly, catching Mel's smile from the corner of her eye. "I can't make it through another soup day, Margaret."

Maggie looked as if she wanted to plead a little more, but she seemed to accept defeat after a moment, saying, "How'd you manage that, anyway? I've not been able to get out of a Wednesday since I started at the Red Light."

"It was a lot easier than I thought it would be," Louisa mused, putting her first drop of real thought into it. "I just stuck a note to the computer in the office, and when I checked the schedule Laurence had let me off."

"He only did that because he knows you're still upset with him." Mel put in, grinning again. She sat on one of Louisa's stools and leaned in, elbow supported on the counter top. Her chin was propped on her fist as she looked up at her. "He wants back on your good side."

"I'm not angry at him," Louisa said, taken aback. "Why would he think that?"

"Because you never responded to the invite for his Thanksgiving party." Melissa explained. "He told me he sent it last week, and asked if you might decline it because you're upset."

"I never check my email," Louisa said, her tone a little more subdued now. "He _does_ realise October's not even underway yet, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, but Larry's always been like that. He's planned my birthday party since I was eight, and he usually sends out notice a good four months before the actual date, so I'd say he's shown great restraint. He treats every event like it's a wedding," she shrugged. "I find it endearing. It's partly what makes him my favourite uncle. Well, that, and he's my only uncle."

Melissa was clearly still light-hearted, but for the time being Louisa was too lost in blooming guilt to join her. She couldn't recall anything she might have said or done that would make him think her resentful, but apparently there had been something.

"Have either of you thought about how strange the word 'uncle' really is?" Maggie chimed. She sipped her wine and enunciated deeply, " _Un-Kle._ Saying it makes me visualise a barnacle on the bottom of a very run-down boat."

Melissa quirked her brow, looking at Maggie as though she'd never truly seen her before.

Maggie straightened up as she felt the stare. "What?"

Melissa was saved from replying by Louisa's interruption, who had barely heard the exchange.

"Well, did he say why he thinks I'm angry with him?"

"Oh, he still feels bad for making you wait on Greg's friend," Mel said dismissively, but her smile had begun to fade as she apparently realised Louisa's gravity.

"But that was weeks ago," Louisa said as emphatically as though Laurence were in the room to hear her. "And besides that, Mr Holmes wasn't all that bad. I was over it the minute the man was gone."

"Larry said you wanted him thrown out." Mel told her, and Maggie gave a sudden guffaw.

"Sure, because _that_ sounds just like Lou."

"It's not! I wasn't _serious_ , not really. I just wanted to avoid him after what happened the first time he came in, and… I was feeling all cornered." Louisa tapered off near the end of her sentence, feeling ridiculous. Had she really asked Larry to chuck him?

"Why would _you_ want to avoid him?" Maggie asked. "I'm the one who made such a mess of him. You swooped in and saved the day."

"First of all, that wasn't completely your fault," Louisa said, pointing an emphatic finger. "Holmes was a wile arse, and he knew it." And though her mouth remained open, an inch from speaking, Louisa remained silent. Eventually she shut her lips and her friends cottoned on to the fact that there would be no second point.

"So…?" Maggie raised her brow, looking keen. "That doesn't tell me why would have him thrown out. You've never wanted anyone thrown out, not even the creep who slipped his hand in your back pocket."

Louisa broke eye contact and went to the drying-rack near the sink for a glass. As her back was turned she said, "Well, I sort of yelled at him. After you'd gone."

Maggie grinned somewhat dubiously. "You never yell. You internally ignore people."

Louisa might have conceded that she was exaggerating; she'd never actually raised her voice to Mr Holmes, but now that she could reflect upon the incident (and the revelation that sweet Laurence thought she could harbor grudges so strongly) she felt as though she'd slapped the detective with a white glove and thrown it at his feet.

She went to the fridge, still without looking at either of her friends, and took out a pitcher of cold water (she could not, for the world, figure out how to get the water-connection in the refrigerator door to work). "In my defense, the man refused to be ignored."

"I wish I'd stuck around to see that." Maggie said regretfully. "You reckon anyone managed to film it?"

Louisa set the glass on the counter and pressed her hands to both cheeks, trying to will away the heat. Melissa nudged Maggie, both of them suppressing chuckles at the sight of Louisa's crimson ears. It wasn't often that Lou got flustered, and when she did, it always seemed to be over the silliest of things.

"Don't even kid about that, Margaret."

"Oh, Louisa, you're too sensitive sometimes." Mel declared laughingly. She seized the bottle of pinot by its neck and gave it a wobble. "Have a drink, bury those tendencies."

"I think drinking would sort of highlight the tendencies," Maggie pointed out, and Mel shrugged, allowing there to be some truth in the statement. "Well, as far as Larry's concerned, don't worry too much. I can talk to him tomorrow, sort the whole thing out."

"No, don't bother," Louisa said glumly. "I'll go in for lunch and talk with him myself."

Melissa gave Louisa the sort of look that said she found her to be making too large a fuss about something relatively inconsequential, but it didn't change Louisa's feelings. She hated to think she'd snubbed Laurence when he was always so kind himself. Her mother had always taught her humility when it came to kind people, so it was perfectly logical to say that Louisa's pride was actually a little wounded by the situation, and she hoped it wasn't something very serious to him as well.

"Let's play a game," Maggie suggested brightly. "Talking isn't much fun, is it?"

The last time Louisa had the girls over, they'd squeezed hours of entertainment out of countless rounds of Scatagories, and they went down that same path tonight. The more plastered Mel and Maggie became, the funnier they were; Louisa had never minded being the only sober one in a group, and with them it was almost more enjoyable to keep from drinking, so that she was fully able to witness their unique brand of inebriated hilarity.

Subjects ensued that were far more favourable to Louisa than those in the kitchen; they teased Maggie about her thirty-two year old paramedic and Melissa about her crush on Greg Lestrade. They rehashed the memory of Jimmy the barman having a shift with a mop on a lost wager, and recalled how Laurence had once tripped in the dining room and brought down an entire, food-laden table in the futile effort to right himself.

Sometime after midnight Maggie left for home, calling a car to avoid the harrowing prospect of hailing a cab on a street as subdued as Pelcourt. Melissa lost steam shortly after that, accepting Louisa's offer to stay the night by pulling the space-heater closer and cocooning herself in the blanket on the sofa.

Louisa rinsed out the wine glasses once Mel was certainly out, voyaging into a drunken Dream-Land. She placed them in the drying-rack with little care to keeping quiet. Between the two of them Mel and Maggie finished the bottle of pinot grigio off, and half a bottle of the merlot Louisa kept specifically for company.

She went back into the sitting room for the aforementioned bottles and as she shoved the cork back over the merlot Mel twitched in her sleep, her mouth falling slack, eyelids fluttering.

It had been a nice night, but now that it was over, there was an emptiness to her flat that depressed her spirits considerably. Once she finished tidying up, once all the plates had been washed, rubbish disposed of, board-games packed away, she padded into her room and sat at her leather-covered writing table, apparently for little more than to stare a hole through the drawer in which her notebook slept.

She plucked a pen out of the metallic-mesh cup at the corner of her table and fell into tapping the end of it in a sporadic beat on the table's surface.

Louisa had always considered herself a perfectionist in her writing, which was actually more of a hindrance than it was of any actual benefit to her skill. Over the years she had started at least a hundred different stories, but only four had ever been serious projects. Those were four were the ones she pictured herself publishing, pictured as the foundation of her writing career, and she'd rewritten and revised each of them in turn, dedicated herself to each of them with every particle of concentration she had.

As of yet she hadn't come to a point where she could see a light at the end of her revision tunnel. Those four stories had gone through _a lot_ , each one twisted, rearranged, hacked to pieces and linked back together again so many times that none of them resembled what their initial concepts had been. But, she could be contented in the assurance that she was continuously moving closer, constantly improving and taking steps.

Not only was she feeling stuck at this very moment, but she could not latch her attention to any project to work on, let alone the four that would have actually meant anything to her. Her mind was wiped clean of inclination towards any of them. Her thoughts appeared to want nothing more than to wander.

The sound of a car rolling up the pavement broke through to soft night noises of Pelcourt Street. Louisa half-stood, angling herself over the writing table to sweep the curtains away from the window it was situated in front of. A couple emerged from the black cab stalled at the kerb, linking arms the moment they were able. She'd never met them, but Louisa recognised the couple who lived in the flat below her on the first floor from the handful of times she'd spotted them, as she did now.

They were nice enough, she was sure, as they never complained about noise or other silly, neighbourly things. They were relatively young, as well. Obviously married. And Mr Keene, who lived on the ground-level, had spoken highly of them when Louisa had come looking into her own flat. The woman was a dancer, as Louisa had been able to read in her posh windbreaker and the perfect, circlet bun at the base of her head the first time she'd caught a glimpse of her from this very window. The man was an artist of some sort – more likely an architect, judging by the neatness of his dress, the scarcity with which she ever saw him go out, and the large, flapping portfolio she'd never spotted him without.

Above all else, they both looked to be so painfully _cool_ that Louisa would have liked to be friends with them. People did that sort of thing, didn't they? They got to know their neighbours and invited them in for charades and cheese, right? But the idea of approaching them herself had literally never entered her brain as a serious thought to be considered. Both strangers knew she lived right above them, had probably seen her move in, so if they kept themselves away then they must have had a reason.

With a quiet sigh – and feeling rather creepy – Louisa sat back in her chair, letting the curtain swish back into place over the window. She opened her drawer and pulled out her notebook. She pulled the knot out of the long, thin strip that kept the it shut and let it fall open in front of her, picking up her pen once more and feeling as though she might as well close her eyes and try doodling a self-portrait.

Her hand seemed to move on its own, stringing letters together in her neat, loopy script, and once she was finished she read over the line, an uncharacteristically deep grimace marring her features.

 _I've got nothing_.

How long had she been so prosaic? Had she always been this way, and was only now becoming aware of it? Eight bloody weeks and she hadn't a thing to show for it, aside from her so far adequate performance in her classes. But was that enough? The only story that had vaguely interested her was the case of Antoine Douglas' murder.

Louisa picked herself up from the seat, giving in, deciding to change into her pyjamas and crawl under the sheets, thinking it all over once again.

About a week ago she summoned enough curiosity to search the case online, once it became clear that Holmes did not plan to return to the Red Light and finish the narrative for her, but the most informative bit of news she could find on the matter was little more than a couple of paragraphs, saying there had been no conclusive evidence in the investigation that could be explored any further, and the case had gone cold. New Scotland Yard called for any and all people who might've had some direction to point them in, but apparently any tips that possible came in amounted to nothing.

" _There isn't a way to tell who the killer is… There's_ nothing." Holmes had said, and it seemed now that he had not been going for melodrama. She wondered absently whether he'd ever looked seriously into the matter again, after she'd suggested the new perspective to him, but she would likely never know.

Which was, shockingly, an unfortunate revelation; she'd probably wonder off and on for a long time whether or not he'd ignored her completely, and although Mr Holmes seemed like an incredibly thorough individual, he was such an _odd_ mixture of a thousand other components that anything was plausible.

Now there was another thing he'd said, echoing back to her: " _Are you sure you never read anything about me, Miss Daly?"_ As though she had any reason to remember him saying that at all.

For the longest moment Louisa was kept from sleep by the temptation to log onto her computer and search the detective's name… After all, what had he meant by that? Was he just horrifically egomaniacal, or were there stashes and stores of columnists across London who were determined to break into his private life? She smirked to herself, eyes still close, cheek pressed to her pillow. Perhaps Sherlock Holmes was the Antoine Douglas of the forensics world.

But, for whatever reason, she felt as though fulfilling that nagging curiosity over Holmes would only prove him right about some unspoken bet, some challenge, even if there was no way he would ever know she'd succumbed.

She never went for the laptop, but she did end up unlocking her mobile and using it to send a quick email to her brother, after many minutes of arguing with herself against it. The thought to do so had only just occurred to her, and there was no reason she couldn't just leave it for the morning, but eventually she had to accept that she wouldn't be able to sleep before she sent it.

Louisa typed quickly, her thumbs fumbling a few times, so she was forced to proof-read the stupid thing before she sent it, but it was done with quickly. It was a brief message:

 _Quinlan,_

 _Send your address please. Also, tell me a good time for a visit. I know you're busy so I'll come round to yours, I've got all the money I need for a ticket and a hotel if you're still the neurotic pile I remember. I can take off time before Thanksgiving._

 _I love you,_

 _Lou._

With Quinlan so far at the front of her mind as she fell to sleep, she dreamt of him, and a little neighbor they used to play with together. It was actually quite a nice dream, the sort of dream one wants when they're sick.

* * *

By the time Louisa woke the next morning Melissa had gone.

She dressed herself warmly, buttoning her pea coat and wearing wooly socks. It seemed that October was in a hurry to prove itself as the real commencement of autumn, and with the central-heating still turned off the brisk temperatures raked her skin as she went through the motions of covering it. She thought about taking some breakfast tea to help in the process of warming herself up, help the scratching of her progressively raw throat, but in the end she elected to order something once she got to the restaurant, anxious to get on with the day.

She walked quickly to the corner of Pelcourt Street, where the neighborhood connected with Poppy Avenue and spent longer than was probably worth it trying to hail a taxi. Only two passed by her, but she'd been unprepared for the first, and the driver never looked in her direction. The second already carried an elderly woman in the back seat, and once she waited long enough for a third, she huffed in frustration and continued down the avenue, her breath becoming runners over her shoulder as it hit the open air.

Athlone had always gotten frigid during the final months of the year, but it wasn't quite as quick in its decline as London clearly was. This new environment was nice, in a way. It undoubtedly would have been better had she not been so stiff that morning, but Louisa had always been partial to the colder weather. She loved slatey skies and how they made anyone's house look so warm on the inside, and there was something so clean and simple about a lower temperature. As she walked she was able to wake up her limbs and shake off the remnants of substandard sleep, but stepping into the Red Light was like a gift.

She went straight to the bar and boosted herself into one of the high stools. She was one of three people sitting around the mahogany set-up, the others being regular patrons who she noticed around at least five days out of the week. Jimmy, never one to pass up a Wednesday despite the fact the bar stayed relatively shunned, ambled over to her.

"Hey Louisa," He smiled widely and reached under the bar for a bottle of Sauza Gold tequila. "Come for a drink?"

"I'll have tea, actually." She said, wondering how everything the barman said seemed to have a flirtatious ring to it. "And if you could let Laurence know I'm in to speak with him, there's a good tip in it for you."

"You could finally let me have your number," he flashed his teeth again and Louisa raised her eyebrows at him. _Oh, of course_ , she reminded herself. _You're female and he's an incorrigible flirt. That's why he sounds that way._ "I promise not to call and hang up half a dozen times."

"I've told you," she smiled, to keep from hurting his feelings. He was incorrigible, but he always made her guests' drinks at lightning speed. And, he _was_ funny. "I'm engaged to a man by the name of Goldsmith, and we plan to be married in six years' time."

He leant over the bar just a bit, saying, "If you weren't so sweet I'd think were too stuck-up to go out with me."

She couldn't help the moment of blank silence as she struggled to work out whether or not he considered that an actual compliment, but before it could become awkward she managed another tight smile. "Again, I appreciate the help. Breakfast tea, if we still have any."

Jimmy went of his way, and the smile slicked away from her face the moment he was out of sight. She shifted in her stool so that she could look round the dining room, returning Mel's wave across the way, near the host stand. A slow, caressing French song was playing softly overhead, the singer's vocals emotive and warbling – beautiful. She fell to watching a couple sitting on the same side of a table, holding hands, foreheads pressed together. Newly-weds, obviously. But beyond them, an unexpected sight caught her eye.

Mr Holmes sat in the Greenhouse at the same table he'd been in when she'd waited on him, visible through the middle arch in the wall. He stared straight ahead, and after a second of looking dumbly in his direction she saw him lift a ceramic mug to his lips and take a sip. Her lips parted, an odd feeling of surprise taking root. She noticed his head twitch just an inch, and she sucked in a hasty breath as she whirled her stool in a complete 180, putting her back to him.

Her palms landed flat against the bar, and she held her shoulders stiff. She really had not expected him to come back, and wondered rather deeply why he had. It occurred to her that Holmes might have asked for her to wait on him again; actually, it was probable, considering he'd obviously requested to sit in the Greenhouse, which was clearly closed as she wasn't on the floor to take it. Holmes was a creature of habit, which may have been why he came back. But was his need for consistency so ingrained that he would return to the company of someone he didn't seem to like very much?

Part of her wanted to head over and ask him. There _was_ the slightest chance that he might be up to the task of talking over the Douglas case, but mostly she was certain that fate had stepped in last week when she'd written her request to have this particular Wednesday off, so that she could avoid him completely. It was probably better to stay where she was, keep herself faced away from him. He'd never seen Louisa out of her uniform, so it was unlikely that he should recognise the back of her head, and even if he did, Holmes didn't strike her as the sort to approach anyone whose presence he wasn't relying upon in some way.

It took a handful of minutes for Jimmy to return with her tea, and the knowledge that Laurence would be out with her when he finished up with his lettuce count. She wrapped her hands around the cup, letting the heat sink into them and melt the mild numbness, and tried to drudge up to courage to bother Jimmy for honey, to soothe her throat. Usually it took much colder weather to make her so chilled to the bone, but she could feel her immune system chugging away only half-heartedly, letting her down, making her weak. She sneezed into her beverage napkin.

Finally, there was the sound of a clearing throat behind her, and she turned her head over her shoulder to smile at Laurence

"Good to see you, dear." He said, and she detected a hint of nervousness in his demeanor. "I can't remember the last time you were in for a casual visit."

"I don't think I have been before," She gestured for the stool nearest to her, chancing a peek into the Greenhouse. Holmes was gone, just like that. She could just make out a few notes stuck under a plate of half-eaten fish and chips. An automatic sigh of relief ballooned from her lips. "though I think this counts as more of an official visit, of sorts."

Laurence took the stool readily enough, but he said, "We could take this into the office, if you'd like."

"No, here is fine," she smoothed the fabric of her coat in her lap. "But it _is_ strange. I feel as if I should be carrying a tray."

There was a vaguely uncomfortable pause. Louisa reached up and started to play with the tag at the end of her tea bag and Laurence cleared his throat. "So, what's this official business, then?"

"I suppose I came to clear the air."

"Oh?" Laurence shifted his gaze, looking as though he wanted so say something, but wouldn't.

"Mel let it slip last night that you think I'm upset with you. I'm _not,_ not even a little bit." She chuckled. "That's the long and short of it, really."

Laurence released a breath that had held his shoulders stiff, so he seemed to deflate. "Oh thank God. I thought you were going to quit."

"What? Why?"

"Well Judy put in a notice, she'll be leaving at the end of next week. And that new girl never showed up today. They say these things come in threes." He looked at her happily for a moment, but then leant in furtively, "Are you sure you're not upset? Because you haven't seemed like yourself lately."

"Of course I'm sure," Louisa said adamantly. "I didn't respond to your Thanksgiving invitation because I didn't expect it, and I hardly check my email unless I'm looking for something."

"Yes, Kitty did her best to keep me from sending them so early." Laurence smiled. "I just like for everyone to have proper notice. So you'll come, then?"

She looked at him regretfully. "As to that, I really can't say for sure. I think Quinlan may be talked into letting me come for a visit. I'm hoping to drag him back home with me."

"Of course, I understand perfectly." Laurence nodded firmly enough to give his little double-chin a shake. "That'll be nice, eh? Seeing your brother?"

The grin she returned was more wistful than she would have liked, but Laurence didn't seem to notice. He patted her hand and stood, saying, "If you want, there's a free bowl of soup with your name on it. No charge." He winked so meaningfully, as though he'd just slipped her twenty pounds, that Louisa gave a breath of laughter; the man really was just the cutest thing.

She turned back to the bar, putting serious consideration into taking that soup, though she'd grown tired of the potato kind within the first week of her employment here. She could feel Jimmy trying to catch her gaze as she sipped her tea, so she looked pointedly ahead of her, ignoring him as politely as possible.

Beyond the bar was a row of booths separated by a narrow aisle, and in her effort to appear lost in her own thoughts Louisa let her eyes glaze over the people who sat at them. She didn't plan to stay much longer, only staying at all from an unwillingness to go back into the elements, but as her focus fell to the darkened corner where the dining room split off into the bar-seating, she wished she'd just taken her leave the moment Laurence disappeared into the kitchen.

She might have escaped in happy ignorance, but as it turned out, she became aware of the tall, lurking figure hunched in the corner, the ghoul of the Red Light.

Louisa's expression morphed into baffled outrage and Holmes – who knew instantly he'd been found out – hunched inwards, as though hoping that thin strip of brick wall could disguise him.

"You're joking." She said, loudly enough for him to hear. They were making eye contact, she addressed him directly, and still Holmes shrank further, probably believing he could just melt into the shadows.

"Come off it and come out, Sherlock." Louisa commanded, and after a long hesitation Holmes straightened up and stepped into the light, posture held in a manner of preserved dignity. It was so dramatic, he looked as though he were reenacting the Beast's reveal to Belle. Louisa ground her teeth and expelled a mutter, " _Eegit."_

"I suffer from migraines, low lighting alleviates-" she cast him a look so dark that his mouth faltered and fell closed.

"You were eavesdropping." She informed him, her tone as dark as her look. "You – a man I hardly know – were prowling about, listening to my boring conversation."

Sherlock stuck up his chin and almost imperceptibly shifted his gaze so that his eyes were now focused on the centre of her forehead. "You're angry." He stated.

"No, not angry." She said, but her expression had him thinking otherwise. "I'm highly irritated."

He had no response for her, it seemed. She crinkled her forehead, which he was still examining thoroughly, in expectation.

"Aren't you going to tell me _why_ you felt the need to be so invasive?" She asked.

"Merely interested." Holmes shrugged, but the movement was faintly tense as his hands dove in his trouser pockets to rest.

"Because I'm a suspect?" She tilted her head. "Were you being serious, then?"

Sherlock brows came together, attempting to make sense of it. Was she implying something?

Louisa tossed him an annoyed, knowing look, sighing harshly. "That's right, you've probably forgotten. You accused me of murder last we met, Mr Holmes. I assumed that was the motivation behind your uninvited loitering."

He remembered now, but his feelings on the matter went only far enough to make him wonder at how mundane people found a grudge over the most trivial of things.

"No, that idea was quickly disposed of." He still wasn't looking at her. "I happened to notice your entrance and started over to speak with you. Your boss got to you before I did."

"He has a name," Louisa admonished.

"Well I've never heard it."

"You've heard it many times."

He looked at her straight on now, annoyance of his own flashing in his eyes. "I did not feel it necessary to commit it to memory, it would appear."

"Of course not," she scoffed, shaking her head in almost complete seriousness. "Why should you have? Why remember _anyone's_ name, for that matter?"

Her sarcasm was so hidden that he may have missed it, if he wasn't so concentrated. He frowned at her, noting the redness of her nose, the scratchiness in her tone, and those bags under her eyes. There was usually a strand of playfulness in her manner that was gone today.

"What do you want?" The eyes slid right back to her forehead as soon as the question left her lips.

"You should know that your suggestion was pointless." He said quietly.

"What are you talking about?" She asked, though she already guessed what he meant, she just wouldn't believe it until he gave her no choice.

"The idea you posed about the killer being expertly hired." Sherlock explained promptly.

"So, I was wrong?"

"No, it was a correct guess," the inflection on the final word was subtle, but definitely there.

"Then how was it pointless?"

"It never came to anything. It doesn't matter who killed Douglas, because they can't be found." Sherlock paused, actually hesitating with a puzzling sort of look that seemed to say he was taking a last look at a mental checklist. He nodded to himself. "It's nothing."

"And this matter was so pressing that you needed to make sure I was aware." She stated it wasn't a question, but Holmes gave his assent regardless. "Why?"

" _Why_?"

"Yes, why was it so important that I know?" She enunciated more clearly this time, still looking a little dumbfounded.

"Because you said you'd hoped to be of service to me, and you certainly were not." The way he said it, as casually as though commenting on the weather, innocently confused had Louisa raising her eyebrows at him.

 _There's actually something wrong with him,_ she thought gravely, and the thought helped soothe the burning desire to insult him. She reminded herself that he couldn't help it.

But then she saw it – a steely glint in his cool eyes, darkened to a clear green by the low light… It was a glint of intention.

She worked it out slowly, but easily.

"I _was_ right, though, wasn't I?" She asked. "Antoine Douglas had an order on him."

Sherlock stalled, blinking lazily. "That isn't the point."

"Maybe not, but I'm asking."

"It was true that there was an order." His tone had subdued to a single note, no inflection, but the line of his mouth firmed.

"You hadn't considered the idea before our conversation, had you?" He didn't answer her so she pressed. "I pointed it out to you, so, one might easily say I was of use."

His nostrils flared and Louisa knew she had him. " _That's_ what bothers you, isn't it?"

He'd been meaning to provoke her. He was an obsessive man, that was becoming ever the clearer to Louisa the more she saw of him. He'd probably obsessed away on the case of Antoine Douglas until he was forced to admit there wasn't a solution to the puzzle; the only thing he had left was to make Louisa feel the responsibility he felt, because she was the one to suggest the Mighty Brain had missed something, and she refused to let him catch her in that corner. She was in no mood for it today. _This_ was an off-day. "Your projections are showing, Mr Holmes." She said, breaking off to sniffle, which made it hard to be clever, but she thought she managed fine.

A sound that was likely intended as a laugh flew from his throat. "Don't babble, Miss Daly, nonsense is not my forte."

"I can confidently say that you are, without a doubt, one of the most complex human beings on this planet," Louisa began, digging into her coat pocket for her wallet. "But I know floundering when I see it, Mr Holmes. Don't worry. Something will come along."

She tossed a tenner on the bar, unable to find anything smaller and unwilling to stay for change, and like that she was gone. Sherlock could think of nothing to say at all, reeling from what she'd said. It was a small, single sentence, but he was certain he ought to feel insulted.

He watched her leave through narrowed eyes, again noting the mismatched buttons fixed on the back of her pea coat where the fabric pleated. It was the first thing he'd noticed when he'd recognised her from his table.

Sherlock left the Red Light minutes after the waitress had, but still he spotted her at the corner of the street, trying and failing to make a cabbie pay attention to her. He mentally amended the previous thought: the mismatched buttons were the second thing he'd pick up on, the first actually being the way she'd whipped around the moment before he'd latched his focus on her. It only occurred to him now, however, that she had seen him first.

He frowned deeply as he watched Miss Daly catch the elbow of an off-duty pilot; she smiled in the man's face and said a few words, and in a moment the pilot was standing at the edge of the pavement with her. The pair stood for at least a full minute, arms wagging in the air until a car pulled sleekly next to them. Sherlock turned away as they shook hands and started walking, slowly; there was no hurry.

He was in no bloody hurry at all.

It was the 31st of October, another Saturday, which also happened to be Halloween. Judy Hunter left the Red Light as punctually as she'd promised, leaving a forlorn-looking Larry to sigh by himself in his office behind the kitchen; he'd really liked Judy. He wondered if she would still come to his Thanksgiving party. Then, he checked his wine delivery and phoned his wife, resulting in twenty minutes spent talking her out of buying another set of ivory knitting needles from Ebay between the lulls of trick-or-treaters.

John Watson spent the day updating patient files while Mary sat at the chair opposite his desk, able to pass her time with one of her Austen novels because she was the heavenly sort who had never known the anxious laziness of procrastination.

Sherlock Holmes holed himself in the lab at St. Bart's, examining another sample of pulp from a board of oak wood (this one he had beaten into submission with an aluminum baseball bat purchased from a thrift shop for this purpose alone), whilst Molly Hooper examined him from the counter adjacent to his own.

Louisa Daly worked all day and spent the evening hours commiserating with Maggie as the girl's little sister, friend in tow and both dressed as sexy nurses, sent her running to the kitchen every time Maggie was forced to visit their table. And, despite having the Monday which followed all to herself, Louisa went to bed perhaps half an hour after she returned home from the Red Light.

Minutes before the clock struck midnight, minutes before Sunday turned over again into another week; Louisa tucked herself under her covers. Fatigue carried her into a swift state of dreamless sleep, just as a girl named Kaleigh Carlton drove her brand new car into the support of a highway overpass.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

AHHHH Happy Christmas, everyone! I know how exhausted this phrase is, but I _truly_ love the holidays. And it's not just because I get a considerable amount of time off, either. I've got as many reasons as there are people who feel the same as I.

Anyway, now that we've gotten the precursor out of the way (the precursor being the affable and dearly departed Antoine Douglas), it's time to get to the meat of the story - the progression of which I am so excited for. Thank you to those of you who were patient enough to stick around for this incredibly delayed update. I sincerely hope you find the outcome as worth the trouble as I do.

I cannot, unfortunately, meet any of the kind strangers who left reviews for the previous chapters; if I could, I would give you each a pleasant (but probably cheap... student, remember) gift. Please consider this chapter dedicated to anyone who enjoys the story. I wish you all a very merry Christmas, from the bottom of my jolly-swelled heart. If anyone's feeling lonely or despondent, or stressed from all the Christmas hubbub, just remember that you are valuable and lovely, and eventually the judgey relatives will take their leave and the hope for peace shall return :p

Thank you!

Emily.


	4. The Case of the Doubtful Murder

**As The Starling Says ****Volume One**

 **Chapter Four**

* * *

November had always been Louisa Daly's favourite month of the year. Her birthday fell on the sixth, and though she'd never taken a look at a horoscope for anything more than a laugh, November had always stood out in her mind as her power-month. Good things always happened, or _seemed_ to happen to her in November.

She let herself into the Red Light the Monday after Halloween, having enjoyed the previous Sunday by learning how to make her mother's Sheppard's pie recipe. She was in high spirits, despite the lack of reply she'd so far received to the email she typed to the ever-elusive Quinlan, so she was able to smile warmly at the sight which welcomed her in the empty dining room.

Each table was still topped by upside-down chairs, excepting the large circular table in the centre; staff meetings were usually held at that particular table during off-hours, but this morning Laurence had taken to occupying it alone, apparently for the purpose of invoking his Christmas spirit into reality.

There was nothing in front of him at all, the table completely clean, but Louisa could tell from the sappy, boyish grin on his plump face, and the jaggedly-cut bit of brown felt hugging the left arm of his woolen vest, that he had been up to his crafts again.

"This is just the most _wonderful_ morning, isn't it?" Laurence gushed. He kicked the chair across from him out from under the table. "Sit down, I need your opinion. Come on now, quickly, it's a surprise…"

Louisa wanted to laugh and she wanted to groan, but what she remained was silent as she picked her way between the slightly cramped tables, letting the front door shut behind her.

"Wait until you see…" he started, feeling his jacket pockets, and reaching into his left.

From the pocket he produced a large, cartoonish reindeer face, stitched out of felt with a prominent red nose, that had been stuffed with a small bit of cotton; there was still a piece the size of her fingernail lodged firmly in his hairline. Now she picture Laurence hunched over in that very chair, face screwed up with that familiar consternate expression she'd seen on him many times before when he was focused, running his cotton-clad fingers through his unkempt sable locks when he got flustered; the mental image made her smile and Laurence, misinterpreting its cause, beamed in immediate response.

"I knew you would like it," he said, handing it over to her. Her own name had been penned prettily onto Rudolph's collar with a cloth-marker. "You'll be Rudolph, of course. Melissa will be Prancer with a green collar, and Lilly will be _Dancer_ , with a harvest gold collar. Look at the back – yes, turn it over – there's a pin there, you see. Just fix it on your shirt, like we did with the pumpkins last month."

Still smiling, Louisa asked, "How are people going to know that Melissa is Prancer and Lilly is Dancer?"

Laurence chuckled. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it's obvious I'm Rudolph, with the red nose and all. But Mel's reindeer will only say her name, and Lilly's will only say hers. People aren't going to know that green means Prancer and yellow means Dancer, and that orange means Vixen, or however it is you've got the colours worked out."

"Harvest gold, not yellow." Laurence sniffed. And then, as if on second thought, he reached over and plucked the reindeer from Louisa's fingers. "Never you mind… _We'll_ know."

"Well, I like mine," said Louisa, taking it back now that she was finished laughing at him. She examined it for a moment before observing, "Beautiful work you've done with the horns."

"It's all in the layering," he nodded sagely, clearly appeased. " _Two_ bits of felt, much more sturdy that way."

"I would never doubt it."

They got up together, working around each other as they took all the chairs down from the tables. Louisa kept the small-talk going, knowing that conversation always made monotony less stifling.

"I'm surprised you didn't start out with turkeys instead of skipping straight to Christmas."

"Not nearly as many people celebrate Thanksgiving." Laurence pointed out, and Louisa nodded, allowing it. Her own family had never been one to pass up an excuse for a feast, but over the years she'd received her fair share of odd looks from Irish and English alike who couldn't understand the appeal behind such an American tradition. For Louisa, the holiday had always been a welcome addition, especially back when she was a little girl, and the family was whole.

As the pair spoke and worked the hour dwindled away, coming closer to eleven. Eventually Louisa moved into the kitchen to put on the coffee and heat water for tea. She was forced into silence then, as Laurence took to his office to attend to whatever it was owners were made to do before the day started.

Once the doors were opened her coworkers arrived in waves, some coming as soon as the clock hit eleven, and others after noon, when it was typical for the restaurant to start filling in. Most of her day passed as all the rest had from the first, her time wholly engrossed with taking care of her guests. She came close to frustration only once, when Willy refused to cook a steak from medium-rare to the well-done temperature that had been requested.

"I swear by it, you English don' know a proper cut o' beef from your pale arses." He declared, pointing his trusty spatula for emphasis from under the service-window.

She slid the plate, occupied by said undercooked meat, closer to the man, unperturbed by his evil eye. " _You're_ English, Willy. I am not. Unfortunately, that still means this needs to be fixed." She gave him her hardest stare.

"Italian I am, by half a' least." He cried, shooing her off with a hairy-knuckled hand. "You go tell your man to try i' my way, see if he don' like it."

He prodded the plate back towards her, where it nearly toppled off the ledge of the hot, metallic surface of the counter. Louisa caught the plate with the palm of her hand, growling in piqued frustration when she burned herself.

She brought it back up and let it fall back onto the counter with a clatter.

"That _man_ is a woman in her second trimester of pregnancy by the look of her, and it is her perfectly logical choice _not_ to feed her child half-raw red meat." She shot at him, the very last vestiges of her patience keeping the bite out of her tone. "Now, shall I come back there and take your ear, Willy, or will you behave as the civilised man you are and _cook_ the _steak?"_

Willy said nothing, only glowered at her in distaste before snatching the plate and turning away from her. She got a full view of the sweat seeping through the white shirt he wore at the small of his massive back, and for whatever reason, it made her smile with affection.

"Thank-you, William," she sang, and he brandished his spatula over his shoulder in reply.

Then, when Louisa spied Margaret coming through the swinging doors, looking positively morose, she rushed forwards to meet her.

"Give him a moment," she warned. "I've only just scolded him."

Maggie sighed deeply and slumped sideways to lean against the wall, arms folded against her chest.

"I don't need Willy. I'm not even on for another twenty minutes." She said lowly, fighting off a yawn.

"You seem off," Louisa said, regarding her friend closely. "You aren't getting sick now, are you? Because I can't handle another cold."

"No, but I am off, you have no idea. Two nights now I've missed sleep," Maggie said, her eyes growing wider after a moment before she added, "that's right, you don't know! Where have you been?"

"I happened to have yesterday off," Louisa said, somewhat amused. "That does happen from time to time."

"Well, a lot's happened while you were lounging away in your jolly flat. A friend of my sister's was killed, driving while _blasted_ apparently – or so they thought. From what Anna's told me, they're considering murder."

"No, really?" Louisa said, highly taken aback. "If she's a friend of your sister's she can't be more than sixteen, right? Who'd want to kill her?"

"Well that'll be something they're trying to figure out, won't it?" Maggie pressed her cheek against the plastic sliding that kept the wall protected from damage. "Anna's been inconsolable, of course. All she wants to do is stay up all night, trying to reason it out. Not that I'd ever mind being there for her, but I feel a little helpless. I mean, what can I possibly do? I haven't got any answers for her."

"Just keep… doing what you're doing, I suppose." Louisa said, wishing she had better advice to offer. "Wow. Murder. A sixteen year old girl. I can't believe it."

Margaret gave her a look that said she agreed, but fell silent from there. Louisa, however, could not let it lay still.

"What would make them consider a killing? Wouldn't they be able to tell between a deliberate murder and a drunk-driving accident?"

Maggie shrugged noncommittally, but her face was troubled. "It's not entirely decided that it was murder, remember." She replied, and for the briefest of moments Louisa wished her friend would actually listen to her questions before answering.

She flicked the impatience away, however, knowing Maggie was just tired, and tried again. "But what makes them think it was murder? Any evidence? What did Anna say about it?"

"Well, she sort of hasn't stopped crying since she found out, so what I know probably has a lot of holes in it. Someone apparently showed up at the scene, one of the New Scotland Yard lot, I think. I ended up talking with Rick about it, and he said they've done a fair bit of hiring down there, and he reckons this bloke just wants some recognition, but hasn't a clue what he's about. Anyway," Maggie sucked in a breath before going on strong; the great thing about her was that once she got her end of the conversation going, she was a very efficient story-teller. "The man shows up at the crime scene, and they let him take a look at the car Kaleigh was driving, even though he wasn't necessarily invited there in the first place. Well, according to the man, there's a tear in the upholstery of the passenger seat, and a scratch on the wrong side of Kaleigh's neck which he insists came from a human hand. And this, apparently, is enough conclusive evidence for him to say that Kaleigh was definitely murdered by someone she knew, who was also much older."

"How was Anna able to know all this?" Louisa questioned, wondering if Maggie's paramedic had been there and the girl was just too embarrassed bring him up more than she had to. "She can hardly have been at the scene herself."

"Kaleigh's sister was, and they were all friends, the three of them. Thick as thieves, really." Maggie answered. "Leyla's the one who told her the news in the first place. And apparently the Carltons are angry over the whole thing, positively livid. The whole family thinks the Scotland Yard man is keeping the wounds open for no reason. Now they're holding Kaleigh's body for examination, and the funeral will have to be put off. And I can understand, if this does turn out to nothing. I mean, if any man showed up at the scene of my untimely death, right before they close up shop, I think I'd haunt him, give him all the attention he wanted."

Louisa looked away thoughtfully, mulling it all over. Somewhere beneath all the new facts and intrigue, she found the brain power to note that she had been in London for a little over three months, and already she'd heard of two high-profile murders, one of a girl she knew by extension. She'd always thought of her mother's fretting for city-life as being touched with drama, but perhaps she'd been right all along. People were killed in Athlone, of course. They were killed all over the world. But still, the aspect of murder in general here was so glamorised that it was a little disturbing.

And, what was more disturbing, was how exciting the whole thing really was.

* * *

"It can't have been, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson turned her back to the detective and busied herself with drying the water glasses she'd just washed for him. "I'm sorry, but this time, you're wrong."

"That is statistically unlikely, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock replied, distancing himself from the woman's obvious distress. "I haven't the slightest doubt that the girl was murdered. I wouldn't say so if I wasn't certain."

"It just doesn't make sense." Mrs Hudson went on, and as her delicate voice began to waver Sherlock ventured into the sitting room for a bout of pacing. "She was a student – a little girl. Who'd want to harm a child?"

"There is a vast scale of archetypes found in the various patterns of human nature that would make anyone capable of almost anything." Sherlock answered the woman's rhetorical question, casting her a look without really seeing her. " _why_ is the question, clearly."

He sat on the couch and settled his hands on his knees. In his mind's eye he laid it all out – all the clues and evidence. The tear in the upholstery, just at the edge of the passenger seat, the girl's broken heel on her right shoe, the scratch on the left side of her neck, part of what would have been a claw mark if proper pressure had been put in all the culprit's fingers.

 _So, a desperate snatch, then, quick and forced, to pull her over into the driver's side._

Yes, he _knew_ that already.

Play a visual, her right leg kicks, sure, sure, breaks the heel, he _knew_ that already.

It was all there, all of it; he saw it the moment he ducked his head into the car, once the shaky officer could manage to hold the flashlight steady. He'd even found the ring, had shown the blasted thing to Lestrade, held it right under his nose and spelled it all out for him. And still, he could not make them move.

Mrs Hudson intruded on his skewing thoughts with a cup of tea balanced in front of his face. He took it, thinking how convenient it was to have people to hand him things. John with muffins, Mrs Hudson with tea. He looked up at her and said, "The person knew her. They started off in the car, were driving, even. He pulled her into the driver's seat while she was conscious and the car was stationary. So, they stopped somewhere."

"He?" the sagging skin above the woman's eyelid puffed in and out as she blinked.

"Conjecture. May have been another woman, but the type of killing suggests the thought process of a strong, brusque man in a situation he hadn't anticipated being in." He told her automatically, as though reciting a dissertation. "Very possible it was little more than a crime of passion altogether but-" he thrust the cup of tea in Mrs Hudson's direction, who was somehow prepared for it. He went on in a frustrated growl, " _why_? Why would a man who knew her want her dead? Not a sign of rape, no sign of violation, so what did he want from her? Their relationship appears by all accounts to have been consensual, so what was the conflict? Drugs, perhaps?"

"Please, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson tutted, her face taught with disgust. "Don't speak that way… Signs of violation – hardly a thing a woman wants to think about at a time like this."

"I said she _wasn't_ violated, Mrs Hudson." Was the hollow reply.

Still she complained, "Such a young, sweet girl. Really, you ought to practice a little more delicacy about these things, Sherlock."

Finally, the detective was forced to ask, "Where's John?"

"He'll be back any minute now, I expect." She replied, clearly pleased for a change of subject. "I think he went to the market."

Sherlock nodded, recalling now. Mrs Hudson was far too fragile to act as a proper sounding-board. It wasn't her talking he minded; John often interjected his soft questions and pointless opinions into Sherlock's audible thought processes, but Mrs Hudson could be morally affronted at moments that were surprising, considering the questionable background the woman had sprung from.

She wandered away after that, and Sherlock pulled out his mobile without caring where she went. He dialed for Lestrade who, like always, answered on the third ring.

"Is the crime scene still open?" Sherlock asked, by way of greeting. "Has the girl's body been examined?"

"Yes, and no." The DI answered.

"Well, I'll have Molly lay the body for me. Come along if you want, or John can let you know what I find." He was a beat away from hanging up when Lestrade spoke up again.

"We've discussed this already, Sherlock. My team has to have the first look. We have to follow protocol now. There's no choice in the matter."

"It's been two days, Lestrade." Sherlock intoned. "The longer you wait the less there is to find."

"Well that's not as simple as you seem to think it is, either. After what happened at the scene, Mrs Carlton is putting up a fight. Says she doesn't want her daughter's body scoured for a show-pony."

"Oh, _please_ don't tell me you're being thwarted by a grieving mother." Sherlock sneered.

"She's refusing her consent to have Kaleigh's body examined," Lestrade said, after a painfully long pause.

"This is a murder case. She _can't_ refuse consent." Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, back to pacing the floor.

"She'd gone to a law firm for advice, and with the story she presented, there's been a fair amount of speculation as to the authenticity of your theory." Lestrade explained, the wariness in his tone doing nothing to sooth the burst of anxious frustration Sherlock felt in his chest.

The feeling seemed to move through his limbs until the stillness was unbearable, and he found himself scratching a hand rapidly through his hair.

That _bloody_ paramedic.

" _The authenticity?"_ Sherlock spat. "This woman's folly is wasting valuable time, and you'll just allow it to happen."

"It's not so two-dimensional, Sherlock. You've got quite a reputation with the papers, the police, with _London_ in general. Normally there wouldn't be an issue, but a lot of feathers were ruffled after your conflict with Dijana Carlton." Lestrade said, in his most reasonable tone.

"Is _Dijana_ aware that her own mother was the reason I even turned up at the site to begin with?"

"How do you mean?"

"Marya Amirov is a friend of Mrs Hudson's, my landlady. She phoned Mrs Hudson immediately after her granddaughter's accident, asking for my help specifically." Sherlock knew his voice had elevated, but he didn't care. Lestrade could always take a good round of shouting. He now cut his eyes in the direction of the kitchen. He couldn't see the woman, but he knew Mrs Hudson was in there, puttering around, doing something she would doubtlessly complain about later on. "The victim's mother was at the scene when the death was originally proclaimed an accidental suicide, and now that that idea's gotten stuck in her head she won't give it up for the truth."

It was so clear, but now even Mrs Hudson was clapping her hands over her ears, when only the night before last she'd actually crept _into his bedroom_ and woken him with desperate pleas to, "go find out what's happened to Kaleigh." Well he _had_ found out – at least partially – and it wouldn't be resolved until they all just _let him work._

"But you were there, too… _You_ saw it, didn't you?" Sherlock questioned, a little harshly.

"I saw everything you showed me, but you and I both know we can't all _see_ the way you do. I believe you, I trust you. I'd be a fool not to, Sherlock, God knows." Lestrade seemed to want to reassure Sherlock, but he missed the mark. "This is not a permanent thing, it's just a matter of getting through all the legal bullocks. There are still plenty of things to be done in the meantime, things that may even help speed it along."

"Oh, _do_ tell." Sherlock snapped, nostrils flaring. "Go ahead and give me the full list, while you're at it."

"Well, for one," Lestrade began, either missing or ignoring the facetious current to Sherlock's words. "Have you interviewed the staff at the restaurant the girl was at?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, hard. "No, because the Red Light didn't get her drunk. Or haven't you gleaned as much already from all that I've said? Whoever killed her gave her the alcohol, and they wouldn't have wanted to attract attention to themselves by appearing in public with her. No, she left the restaurant and went off with that man. The Kruz girl she was with last has already said Carlton was sober, said they left the place within minutes of each other. There's no point in looking for leads. If the Kruz girl knew where Carlton went after that, she isn't saying as of yet."

"What about interviewing anyway?" Lestrade asked, rushing through the next sentence before Sherlock could interrupt him. "Even if it comes to nothing it'll help the process to have all the bases covered. We've got to-"

"Follow the sodding protocol, yes, I've heard you. I assume a tox-screen has at least been ordered."

"Yes, the minute the body was brought in."

"And the Kruz girl? Has she had one?"

"No, not as of yet."

"Well, get one. Go on and cover that base." Sherlock suggested. "And, you are aware that all of this will only serve to bring the case round in circles?"

"I am aware, Sherlock." Lestrade's sigh was an onslaught of static in Sherlock's ear. "Does it still mean you'll stop by the Red Light?"

"Not at all. You are perfectly capable of running the errand yourself."

"You're right. But it'll be another day at least before I'm able to make the time for it. Are you willing to wait an extra day, Sherlock?"

Damn it, he wasn't.

Lestrade must have known, because he went on, "When you get there, you'll find them cooperative, I should say. My brother-in-law owns the place, remember. The girl you want to speak with is Maragaret Kruz, older sister, waited on the girls when they went in.

Margaret… That name was familiar, but for whatever reason it brought the image of Louisa Daly's face to his mind. He hung up the phone on Lestrade, who was in the process of saying something uninteresting, and sifted through his memories, until he recalled it all. The girl who'd dashed his water on him, the other waitress had called her Maggie.

Sherlock groaned, his gaze happening to fall of the tea Mrs Hudson had left of the end-table, but it was probably going all cold now, no good. He groaned again and fell back onto the sofa, flopping sideways like a ragdoll, turning on his back. He crossed his feet and closed his eyes, catching a last glimpse of the sponged ceiling. And with that, he attempted to go back to the foundation he'd begun laying in his thoughts.

The car had to have been travelling at speeds of 78 mph by the time it hit the support, if the dead weight of the girl's foot was enough to press the accelerator down completely. Eventually the trajectory arched to the left until she careened straight into the beam that split two lanes. According to Carlton's sister the girl had planned a trip to Northampton a few weeks prior, and the route she'd been taking before the accident coincided with that thread of information. The sister did not recall any mention of a traveling companion, as she informed them Kaleigh meant to meet her friends in some hotel in Northampton… But, sisters hardly knew everything about each other. Sherlock might have been persuaded to believe the person who killed her had been a boy her own age, if it hadn't been for the ring. The ring was the key…

John Watson's familiar footfalls were heard carrying him up the stair, and once again Sherlock braked in his thoughts.

"I'll have you know I was in that bloody line for over twenty minutes." Watson said, beginning his declaration the moment he got the door open. He piled the shopping on the table and glared in Sherlock's direction. "I mean it _so deeply_ when I say the next go is yours."

"Should've just used the Chip-N-Pin. Those lines hardly ever congest." Sherlock smirked as the glare intensified.

"Never again," vowed the doctor.

"Right, now that you're home," Sherlock planted his hands on both knees and sprang to his feet. "I'll need you to head over to Northumberland Street and have a look at that new restaurant."

Watson's expression collapsed so quickly it was comical. "What for?"

"The Carlton girl I told you about – that's the last place she was known to be alive. Look for a Maggie Kruz, speak with her, use your charm and all that."

"The police will have already done that, won't they?" John pointed out, desperately hoping to save himself a trip. He hadn't had an off-day in three weeks, and John treasured his off-days more and more as the years caught up to him.

"No, they won't have. The weight of my analysis seemed to bear little; no one will see the situation as a murder because they've already been given the concept of a cleaner death. They won't let go of it. For the moment we have to find enough solid proof to get the Yard motivated."

"Lestrade must-"

Sherlock batted away the remainder of that sentence, knowing already how it would end.

"Lestrade is dragging his feet like all the rest of them," he gave the tea on the table a sulky expression, and before he knew it Sherlock was reaching for it, temperature be damned. "They don't trust me anymore, it appears." Though Lestrade had told him the opposite only minutes ago, Sherlock couldn't believe it with such opposition coming from the DI. There had been a time when Lestrade would break any rule the moment he told him to, but now it all came down to protocol.

"You cleared your name, Sherlock," John was standing in front of him now, giving him one of those solemn looks of understanding. "Lestrade and the rest trust you now more than ever, I would say. You shouldn't feel slighted by them, it's the public in general who are still wary of you. And then, I heard about the paramedic."

Sherlock, who had been in the process of adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket, halted and fixed John with a glare. " _Don't_ mention that fool." Then, his hands fell to his sides as he added, "Why should the public be wary?"

John frowned, looking for the least offensive way to put his next words. "There may be a… slight… perspective out there that you've desperate to make a comeback."

Sherlock's brows rose practically to his hairline. "There's a perspective. Really. I had no idea I was such a hot-button topic." The detective's face was impassive, but there was certainly something brewing underneath.

"Why is it that you always act surprised at your own fame?" John sighed in exasperation. "Is it another one of those things you do to look cool? You've been in the news constantly since you went public with your return."

Sherlock grimaced. "Well they seem set on making me regret that, don't they?" He finished his cuffs and swung his coat over his shoulders in heightened agitation. "One would think they'd be glad to have me back. I save their lives, sort out their affairs and all their small-minded minutiae, and I hardly ever make them pay me for it, unless the work is dull."

Despite the situation, John felt himself smiling; in this sort of mood, when he seemed almost to be fretting of what other people thought about him Sherlock Holmes appeared as human as he ever got. The man was a constant narcissist, of course. John had learned long ago that Sherlock _greatly_ cared about outside perspective and opinion, but he was rarely honest enough to show it as openly as he was now.

Sherlock kept on with his diatribe as John put away the cold foods he'd purchased, so he could head to Northumberland Street without worrying about letting the milk go warm.

"Proving my own innocence in a scheme that took two years' worth of unraveling should have been a sufficient _comeback_ ," He said with feeling, watching as John handled the mundanity. "Don't they realise this goes beyond whatever perspective they have of me? The Carltons are wailing over their dead child whilst turning up their noses to the perusal of justice."

John snorted, knowing justice was actually of very little consequence to a mind as warped as Sherlock's. But still, he felt obliged to break in with, "Just don't get too wrapped up in this, okay? It's all just talk, we can get the ball rolling again, don't worry."

"Who's worried? I'm not worried." Sherlock insisted right way.

"Of course not," John went for the door. "Shall we go?"

"I'll meet you there." Sherlock told him, swooping in with a lie, "I've got something I need to do. Won't take long. Just start without me."

"Okay, well where am I going?"

"The place is called the Red Light Reader's Restaurant."

John whistled. "Wow."

"A sloppy name, I had the same thought." Sherlock agreed, with that look in his eye that came up when he found something moderately funny. He stepped closer and nearly smiled. "Despite what they say, this is a good case. You must know that."

It was true; underneath the frustrations and complications there was an excitement brewing in the detective's chest. It was anticipation, it was something remarkably close to premonition, even, that he hadn't felt in a long, long time; _something_ was bound to happen, and no one would stop him from being there to watch it all.

John grinned once more for his friend, feeling a refreshing gust of relief.

Sherlock continued to eye him expectantly, and John broke into a chuckle.

"We both know what you want to say," he clapped Sherlock bracingly on the shoulder. "Go on, out with it."

Sherlock leaned in, visibly basking in the drama of it.

"The game is on."

* * *

On that particular Tuesday, once the hour hit three in the afternoon and the scant lunch-rush that had kept the servers of the Red Light at least partially occupied had dwindled to a handful of patrons, Louisa was cut from service and she took herself to the kitchen to finish her share of the leftover work. She sat at the prep counter near the dish station, rolling flatware into linen napkins, the last of her list of tasks before she could take her break. Maggie came to join her about halfway through, her own stack of napkins draped over one hand.

"Night three without sleep. I'm running on fumes, and it does not agree with me."

"I know you won't believe this, but I think you're better suited to the no-makeup look."

"Maggie simply shook her head and began picking forks out of Louisa's rack.

"I feel badly for Anna," Louisa said. The reaction was late, but genuine now that she was back to thinking about it. "She's not handling it very well, is she?"

"She's been… terrible. Awful," Maggie agreed, separating the corners of the napkins in front of her. "This might sound harsh, 'cos I realise it's all still fresh, but I never would have expected Anna to take it this hard."

"Well they were close, weren't they?"

"Yeah, but… she hasn't left my bed once since she crawled into it, and there's been several times when she just goes into fits of right _hysteria_ , Lou. She screams about wanting to be alone, she throws things – she shattered my alarm clock against the wall last night and then just burst into tears and started apologising the next moment, and she wouldn't let go of me for over an hour." Maggie worried her lower lip between her teeth. "I know Anna. This just… feels off. Something about this whole thing is off. And I don't mean the whole murder thing, that in and of itself is just _mad_. I mean this guilt she's feeling. It's got to be guilt, that's what's doing it, I know it is."

Louisa's focus sharpened on Maggie. "Guilt?... What would she feel guilty over?"

"As far as I reckon, she was the last person to speak with Kaleigh before she died. Anna let her get into the car. It's irrational, but apparently some people get that way when they grieve. At least, I hope that's the extent of it, because I really can't explain anything else."

"Wait, I've just remembered," Louisa said suddenly, "they were here, weren't they? Kaleigh and Anna, they sat in your section, dressed as nurses."

"Oh, _God,_ " Maggie ran a hand over her face. "Yes, they were here. And Anna made me burn that costume in the garden. So – that makes one time she got out of the bed – so she could watch from the window." She caught Louisa's curious expression and immediately continued, "No, I didn't serve them alcohol, if that's what you're thinking. Anna knows better than to even try talking me into something like that."

"Then why the guilt, if she didn't know Kaleigh was plastered?" It was a muttered thought, barely audible as Louisa examined the tines of the fork she held absentmindedly.

"I didn't catch that," Maggie said, but Louisa continued her line of thought without hearing her.

"Maggie, I'm sorry to say this, but I can't believe the police haven't been to interview _you_ yet," she said it in an abrupt way that caused a line of confusion to grow between Maggie's brows. "What I mean is, there's obviously something deeper than what we think happened that night. If the investigators would _investigate_ , they would find that this was not the last place Kaleigh was before she started on her trip. They should be trying to find out where she was afterwards, and they haven't even been here to confirm you never sold them alcohol. So what's the hang-up?"

Louisa tried to think back, rifling through the past three days to find the night of Halloween. She nailed down nothing more than the image of Kaleigh Carlton, remaining at the door after Anna had gone. She was picked up by her father shortly after, but that was all that Louisa remembered. Nothing eventful, nothing amiss…

"So she popped off to a shop and bought something off the first idiot clerk who wouldn't card her. Had a night for herself, and ended up in a bad way on the carriageway." Maggie's tone was reasonable, but beneath that Louisa could tell she was still just as troubled as before. "She was meant to be going to Northampton, remember. Maybe she wanted a way to have fun on a solo road-trip. Girls have done more idiotic things, you know."

Louisa bit her lip, brain whirring away as she wondered how long Kaleigh had spent alone – if alone she really had been – before she started her trip.

"This has really got you bothered, hasn't it?" Maggie observed, eyeing her knowingly. "I appreciate it, Lou, but there's no sense in getting worked up over it. I can't imagine you're asking any questions the police aren't looking through already."

Louisa pursed her lips doubtfully, but said nothing more. She finished the last of her flatware and cleaned up after herself as Maggie continued her own. But as she was prepared to head for the front of the kitchen she halted where she stood, a slight connection forming in her mind that seemed painfully obvious now that it had occurred to her.

"Do you remember if Anna ever mentioned the man's name?" She asked, turning to Maggie with her head slightly tilted.

"Which man?"

"The man who came late to the crime scene," Louisa clarified.

"I'm sure she did, but I've forgotten it," Maggie gave a tiny shrug.

"Was it by any chance a Mr Holmes?"

Maggie appeared to deliberate a moment. "That sounds familiar."

Louisa grinned, uttered an airy chuckle, and shook her head.

"What is it?" Maggie said, catching on to the smile herself.

"He's the Bad Man at table ten!" Louisa laughed again. "Oh that's _funny!"_

"I'm lost, Louisa," Maggie blinked.

"The man from weeks ago, the one who sent back Larry's filet?" Maggie gave her a look that implied she thought it was a long-shot. "No, really… He's a detective, he told me himself. I suppose you'd have to know him better to see the connection but, it's him. You'll see." Louisa finished, knowing without a doubt that if Holmes was on the case, _something_ was bound to happen.

And, she was spot-on.

She said her goodbye to Maggie, and at that very moment John Watson was starting towards the entrance of the Red Light Reader's Restaurant, after exercising enough willpower to keep himself from succumbing to the temptation of the _Tapas Rositas_ across the street.

He found the building to be altogether unremarkable on the outside, but once he stepped foot through the doors he found that he had to like the place immediately.

He stepped up to the hostess podium, where a very pretty girl stood on the business end of a cash terminal. She smiled warmly when she saw him. "May I show you to a table, sir?" His gaze was caught by a large felt reindeer face fixed to her shirt.

"No, thanks, Louisa," he said. "I'm actually here on a purpose. I was hoping to speak with anyone who might've come into contact with a young girl named Kaleigh Carlton last Saturday. I believe the woman who waited on her is related to the girl's friend."

Louisa sucked in a breath, looking inexplicably happy. "It's about time. Are you with the police?"

"No, I'm a doctor, actually. I work with a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes."

The girl interrupted him with a sudden laugh. "So he's got a team, does he? Figures."

John hesitated, thrown by the unexpected familiarity in Louisa's tone.

"D'you know Sherlock, then?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes, I know him." She responded. "He's come in to eat a few times. Well, he never actually _eats_ , but you get the point."

"He never mentioned having been here before," John said, and Louisa picked up the impression the doctor was a little embarrassed on behalf of Holmes, and something in that tone led her to believe that embarrassment was a bit of a habit. "I hope he hasn't caused too much trouble."

"Oh, he has." Louisa grinned. "He made a waitress cry."

"Well, that's _wonderful_."

"And it so happens that same waitress is the woman you're looking for. Her name is Margaret Kruz."

"Would you mind pointing her out to me?"

"She's in the back," Louisa turned and beckoned to the barman, who was watching them curiously as he polished a wine glass. He came loping towards them immediately. "Jimmy, would you go get Maggie from the kitchen? This man needs to speak with her, she'll know what it's about."

The barman did as he was asked with a charming smile, and the girl turned back to John, her expression one of concentration.

"May I ask you some questions of my own, while I have you here?" She might have been a journalist, with that brisk, calculated tone.

"Er… Sure, I don't see why not." John replied, nonplussed..

"Can you tell me what time Kaleigh's car was reported to have crashed?"

"Just a few minutes after midnight."

Louisa nodded once, saying softly, "She left here perhaps fifteen minutes before ten, maybe a little later than that," her eyes found his again. "Her father picked her up, and a little over two hours later she's had enough alcohol to drive herself into a support. But that doesn't make sense. Did her parents mention her sneaking out at any point?"

"No, they knew she was headed for Northampton."

"Then why would they allow her to start a road trip alone an hour before the middle of the night?"

"I've come to understand the Carlton's believed Kaleigh to have left for Northampton round eight o'clock."

"And they don't think it's extremely odd that she'd lied?"

John shrugged a little uselessly, simultaneously noting the oddity of the girl in front of him. He couldn't recall any time when he'd gone to interview and been questioned himself; he wondered why she was so interested, and was on the verge of asking her when the barman returned with the waitress of the hour. Louisa gave a small laugh when she spied Laurence, following at their heels with an anxious expression; Maggie must have realised who had come and sought out Laurence, though why she should go to him of all people eluded Louisa completely.

Laurence rushed to the head of the group to introduce himself as Jimmy slipped back to the bar.

"Yes, hello Mr Stimple." The doctor replied, taking Larry's outstretched hand.

"I understand you've come to talk to Maggie?"

Watson nodded and addressed the girl in question. "You waited on your sister here on Halloween, who was in the company of Kaleigh Carlton. Is that correct?"

Maggie affirmed this silently.

"Well, as you know, Miss Carlton died later on that very night, and this was the last place she was seen alive." The gasp that erupted from Laurence was so strong that Louisa half-expected the sound to be accompanied with a cry of " _Egad!"_ Watson shot him a look, taken aback, but before he went on Louisa's attention was seized by the tall, dark-haired figure sweeping into view from the window to the right of the entrance, and in a moment the figure was coming through the door, already unwinding the scarf from over his neck.

Watson appeared not to have noticed Sherlock's entrance as he continued filling Laurence in on the details of the dead girl he'd completely missed over the last three days, nor did he notice the way Margaret's face went pale. Right after Laurence was up to speed, Watson launched into another address.

"I apologise in advance for any aggravation that might have been caused by my colleague, Mr Holmes," he was saying, as Sherlock reached up to unfasten his coat. His fingers were deft, slender, those of a scientist, but the faint smirk Louisa saw pressing his lips was one of haughty entertainment.

"Thank-you, John," he said, finally choosing his moment. "I can make my own apologies, however."

And, instead of doing so, he remained silent as he stared at them all, eyes lingering on the girl who couldn't keep still, and the girl who met his stare rather expectantly.

He looked down his shoulder to Doctor Watson, intoning quietly, "You were meant to smooth the way,"

John gave Sherlock a dumbfounded double-take. "What?"

"Break the ice, you know. They don't look broken, John."

Watson tossed a glance at the befuddled trio that were Laurence, Maggie and Louisa before taking Holmes by the elbow and dragging him away a few paces. The pair were still within earshot, however, as Louisa distinctly heard the doctor's hissing whispers.

"I didn't even know you'd been here, Sherlock, let alone made a little girl cry."

"So the taller one says, but I never saw tears." Sherlock spoke quickly, in a tone that was probably meant to come off as innocent defense.

"Well if you expect any cooperation you should probably behave like a normal human-being instead of making me whisper about them when they're _three feet away!"_

 _Definitely friends, long-term friends,_ Louisa figured. Watching them was almost like witnessing a harassed single mother scold her child out of a temper-tantrum in the middle of a supermarket.

Then, rather than responding, Holmes turned his gaze back to Maggie and the rest, pulling an absurdly phony smile that vanished from his face the moment it appeared as he sauntered back over to them.

He took Larry's hand and gave it a hard thrust that seemed to shake the man's entire upper-frame.

"The proprietor, if I recall?" Sherlock said, and Laurence gave a weak nod. "At the moment I require nothing of you, so you may leave if you like. In fact, it would probably make things more efficient."

When Laurence only met Sherlock's statement with a dazed eye, the detective sighed and straightened up.

"Mr Stimple, if you would be so kind, I would greatly appreciate a cup of tea."

That seemed to snap Laurence back into the game. "Oh, yes, tea!"

"Earl Grey, if you have it." Sherlock inclined his head.

"Of course," Laurence promised as he shuffled away.

"Let the kettle boil twice!" Sherlock called after him, receiving a slight, "right away!" in response.

"Alright, on we go," Mr Holmes said brightly, clapping his hands together in a way that made Maggie jump, crying out. He regarded her with a face that gave away nothing. "For the sake of not prolonging what it probably an awkward situation for you-" here Louisa's eyebrows slowly crept upwards, and she couldn't stop the baffled smile that ghosted her lips. "I think it best we cut to the case, yes? So, did you serve alcohol to Miss Carlton or your sister on the 31st of October?"

Louisa gave great credit to Maggie for bringing herself to a relatively quick reply, where before Louisa had seen the girl clam up under any sort of nervousness. "No," she said.

"Did you see either of them drinking from their own containers? Did anyone join them at any point? Did either of them appear out-of-character, or in any way intoxicated?"

"No,"

Sherlock stared at her impatiently.

"To all questions… sir." Maggie finished, and Holmes went on, satisfied.

"Did you watch them lave?"

"No, they paid their bill and I went into the back to find something to do." Maggie had obviously managed to fight off the majority of her nerves, but by then it was apparently too late; he was finished with her.

He shook his head, muttering, "Well, that was just as pointless as I thought it would be," and, as though recollecting his monitor that was John Watson (who hadn't stopped glaring at him since the detective had started speaking), he rolled his eyes as he strove for better manners. "Though, I thank you for the… ah… attempt."

The smile crept back onto Louisa's face as she watched, nothing that the detective was more… hyperactive today, somehow. She wondered if the presence of Doctor Watson had anything to do with it; Sherlock Holmes had always struck her as obnoxious in his own rite, but this behavior seemed to be on a whole new level of arrogance.

Her grin didn't falter as Holmes turned those eyes onto her, and she was nearly positive she saw them twitch slightly at the sight of her; he could be as self-important as he wanted, could pretend to forget her name if he chose to (she had not missed the way he referred to her as the "taller one" to Doctor Watson only minutes ago) but he could not hide from Louisa that she had definitely struck several of his nerves throughout their unsteady, sporadic acquaintance.

"Got anything?" He asked her.

"Very little."

"Go on, then." He actually lifted his hand and gave a rolling gesture. "Everything you know – and be quite quick."

She obliged him, and Sherlock listened thoroughly, though if anyone were to judge by his expression they'd deem him merely bored.

"As I was telling Doctor Watson, Kaleigh left round 9:50, or sometime shortly after that, I may be off-" Louisa was saying, but apparently Holmes could not allow her the last sentence she would have needed to be done.

"That's specific." He blurted, and when she only looked at him in open question he elaborated, "The time you mentioned was specific. Did the instinct to check your watch conveniently sprout upon your seeing Miss Carlton leave the restaurant?"

"No," she sighed, "I saw the time as 9:32 while printing a check for one of my tables. I believe twenty minutes passed between then and when I saw Kaleigh standing at the door. It's only an approximation, but it's the best I can do, so there you have it."

"Remarkable talent for estimation," Holmes quipped quietly in a way that implied he had not a lick of faith in her testimony. In fact, Louisa rather got the sense that Holmes considered her to be show-boating.

"Fairly good internal clock, actually." She told him, masking her indignation. "I'm only telling you what I _know_ , Mr Holmes."

Sherlock affected an aloof expression. "Yes, you're telling me what you _know_ , patched up in guesswork."

"Sherlock," John warned, clearing his throat.

Louisa stifled her irritation and finished her end. "The only thing I saw from there was Kaleigh's father picking her up from the street out front."

Something insulting was on the tip of the detective's tongue, Louisa was certain, but she was kept from hearing it when Maggie suddenly broke in, drawing the man's eye to her.

"Picked up by her father?" She asked Louisa, who nodded. "But she can't have been… Mr Carlton's been dead since 2009, Louisa."

Sherlock cut back into the conversation, all hints of snide derision momentarily shunted to the side as he bore down on Louisa. He spoke quickly, while Doctor Watson shifted his attention between the other three in turn.

"Did the man come inside?"

"No, she went out into the street, he opened the car door for her, and they were gone." She answered just as quickly, though internally she was battling the urge to smack the palm of her hand against her forehead.

"A cabbie, maybe?" Watson suggested.

"Cabbie's don't open doors for their passengers, John." Sherlock said, annoyed.

"Private driver, then."

"The man wasn't hired help, I can tell you that much," Louisa offered, and Holmes snorted so openly she couldn't mask her indignation this time.

"You _do_ seem the expert." He said, and Louisa immediately caught on to the implication.

"How was I meant to know the girl's father died?" She demanded.

"With your proclivity for guessing one might have expected you to figure it out," Holmes said, his smug face practically begging to be slapped.

But Louisa looked away, upset with herself more than Holmes, despite his antagonism. She felt as though she might've saved a fair amount of valuable time for the case if she'd only asked more about the Carlton family, or even bothered to remember Kaleigh coming to the Red Light sooner than today. She could've gone straight to the police, and if she had, by now they would undoubtedly be taking the issue as seriously as it required.

Sherlock watched the girl's expression cave in as she turned her eyes away from him; once again he could feel how solemn she was over it all, as solemn as she had been over the Douglas case, with which she'd had even _less_ to do.

He also felt John's glare singing his left cheek. "No matter, you've still seen our killer; describe him."

 _There_ , he told her mentally, _a chance to redeem yourself._

"Well, he…" Louisa worried her bottom lip, taking a moment to pull up that image of the man waiting outside the Red Light for Kaleigh. "He… looked like a father."

Even she knew it was a lame attempt, but Homes was still kind enough to support her opinion with a heavy sigh that might've blown her hair back from her face if she'd only been standing a little closer to him.

"Hang on," she protested, defensive and nervous all at once. "He was older, definitely early forties, all-around healthy. He wore a black coat over a nice suit, dark grey. He had a red scarf, quite a bit of silver in his hair, and an olive complexion, similar to Kaleigh's."

"And the car he drove?"

"A black Audi, newer model"

Holmes said nothing else, but he continued to smile at her in that maddeningly self-satisfied manner until she was forced to ask, "Are you quite finished, Mr Holmes?"

"Actually, yes," Holmes shrugged on the coat he'd only taken off perhaps ten minutes ago. "I should thank you all, I suppose."

He didn't.

"John, get Lestrade on the phone. Tell him we've got the killer."

"You don't have the killer," Louisa argues, managing to take Holmes by surprise; he looked back at her as though she ought to have vaporised into thin air the moment he'd dismissed her. "You have his description, that's all."

"Details," he waved her off, buttoning his coat and heading for the door.

Doctor Watson ducked his head, smiling apologetically at the girls before taking his silent leave.

"That was intense," Maggie said, releasing a breath she must've been holding for a while. "You know, I can absolutely see a man like that holding up a crime-scene."

"I told you," Louisa laughed, feeling relieved now that Holmes was gone.

"I'm serious, Lou." Maggie scolded. "I don't think I want to meet him again."

"Don't worry," Louisa patted her friend's shoulder. "I'll keep the Bad Man far away from you."

"Well, where's he gone?" Louisa and Maggie turned at the same time to find Laurence standing behind them, balancing an elaborately laid tea-tray, complete with a plate of lemon slices arranged into a lotus. His eyes darted around the restaurant, searching. "He's left! Well that's rather rude, isn't it?"

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

Hello my lovlies! I want to thank you all once again for all the kind words of encouragement. I know by now you must get tired of hearing me say that, but I'll never stop! I wish you all knew how your words propelled me to keep writing this story - I'm really growing to like this whole process, and it's all because of you. Speaking of, I'd like to ask how many of you are actually from Ireland, or the UK. I ask because I've noticed that this particular site seems to be geared more towards you wonderful Americans, but I know there've got to be a good number of fellow English/Irish dwellers. And, if any of you are reading this story, I wanted to ask how many of you actually celebrate Thanksgiving. I know, I know, it's an American holiday, but I can't be the only Irish girl that's ever celebrated it. I know a few others who have, just for the fun of it, but writing this chapter got me wondering even more, and I'd really like to know. In fact, if I'm not wrong, I think the holiday is really growing here. I know in Ireland it is, anyway.

Okay, so, I know this chapter is a little shorter than the others, but that's only because I COULD NOT find a reasonable stopping point, without going on for another 8,000 or so words. If anyone is disappointed, never fear! The next one will be the longest yet, I can already tell you. For those of you who grow weary about halfway through my usual chapter-length, I sincerely apologise for the one I have coming up, and the one after that. It's my plan to make the next two chapters the absolute last of the volume, so they'll definitely run VERY long. But, if anyone is worried that the first chapter of volume two will take forever, don't be. I don't plan to break at all between volumes, they're meant to run together very smoothly. They're only split into volumes to sort of... show the progression of the story? If that makes any sense.

Please, any thoughts or advice you might have to offer, I would love to read it. I know I don't have to tell this to any fellow writers, but I still feel obliged to remind everyone that reading your words is like fuel to me. Especially if you've got any criticism, I LOVE criticism (as long as it's constructive, don't be mean, ye know?)

Anyway, I thank you all once again, and I wish each one of you a Happy New Year (Jesus, is it 2017 already? Wasn't I supposed to be a published millionaire by the age of twenty-one?)

-Emily


	5. Realism, Impressionism, All the Same

**As The Starling Says** **Volume One**

 **Chapter Five Pt. 1**

* * *

Two days of steady nothing succeeded the visit Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson paid to the Red Light, and apparently 48 or so hours were sufficient enough for that gnawing sensation to grow in Louisa's overall state of mind. Perhaps it was something to do with her twenty-first birthday, which landed uneventfully on the sixth of November. People did tend to reevaluate their lives when marker-days came to pass, didn't they? It was like some rite of passage to panic about your life when you were still a little thing, with all the time in the world.

And then, there was also the fact that Quinlan still hadn't bothered to get back to the email she'd sent him, nor the follow-up call she'd drudged up the nerve to make, which had gone as unanswered as all the rest.

Yet now, as she sat in the Greenhouse, whiling away the last half of her break, she sketched the portrait of the man who had picked up Kaleigh Carlton, and knew she was lying to herself. There was more to the disturbance than fear of aging and the hurt which came from her brother's consistent rejection. Up until last night she had struggled relentlessly to engage in any task for longer than minutes at a time; since her removal from home she'd not found lasting interest in painting, writing, or reading, and out of nowhere, she desire to have her sketchbook in her lap compelled her out of bed in the middle of the night.

While Louisa had always had a fascination for drawing faces, for capturing the nuances of lines and wrinkles, visualising the way shadows should fall on every bed – while she'd always had such fascinations - she didn't sketch this man's face for fancy. It wasn't as though she'd wanted to draw anything, and the man's face just happened to be the thing which popped up in her mind.

This face, which she tried desperately to push back into her tangible reality, had quite literally ghosted her thoughts in repeated intervals. This face made her irrational, made her picture tears in upholstery and scratches on the necks of pretty, young, dead girls.

If anyone had asked her why the face bothered her, she would not have been equal to the task of formulating an answer which made any sense, but she knew; she was very well aware.

However, the reasons were stacked in a box, way away in her head, with a boldly printed label which read, "Don't Look Here, Okay?" She simply didn't want to think of them, the same way she willfully ignored the restlessness, the gnawing feeling that had built up since she settled into Pelcourt Street.

That isn't to say that she never took the occasional, tentative peek inside that box; minds such as the one Louisa possessed were wired to roam, so it was only natural for her to analyse those particular feelings and the motivations behind them.

One theme these self-forbidden thoughts seemed to follow was writing, which made perfect sense. In fact, she wasn't required to look very deep to latch onto this, because since she was a little girl Louisa had a great love of Masterpiece writing. A book, a _real_ book, brought to life such detail that could only come from a person high-minded enough to observe the world and condense it all into one plot, one list of characters. She'd been in reverence with the brains behind her favourite stories, and as such, she'd known for most her life that she would endeavor to be like them.

So, what was she really _doing_?

Louisa had come to the United Kingdom and whittled a hole in its geography that was big enough to fit into. She went to her classes, she made her living at the Red Light, had friends. And that was fine, it was all fine and good. There was nothing wrong with it, as long as Louisa was prepared to pen her first attempt at joining those high-minded writers while firmly and safely planted behind the chained door to her flat; as long as she was alright with mimicking the facets of life she'd never seen first-hand, with ink.

Really, it all came down to the same thing, it all tied in together to create this mosaic of confusion: the restlessness, the self-doubt, the way that killer's face kept popping up, uninvited in her idle musings or studious thoughts – they were all screaming at her, telling her to get a _move_ on it. To _do_ something.

Perhaps it was melodramatic, but at least she could be honest with herself over these things… Even if it had taken months of lying to herself for her to reach this point, and even if now there were other things stirring which she refused to acknowledge.

Louisa wanted to carve more than a hole out of London, she wanted to burn through it. She wanted to learn the world from that single city, wanted her work to be genuine, authentic, _real_ when she finally made something worth publishing, and it was more than a little troubling to realise she'd wanted that all along.

The killer had triggered it, of course, but the desire to see had always been in her. It was highly plausible that she drew him now just to prove that she could.

"Realistic style…"

Louisa started so violently she dropped her graphite, and hooked her head to see where the voice – which seemed much too loud in the quietness of the Greenhouse – came from. Surprise took over her features for just a moment before she recognised Sherlock Holmes, and her expression immediately deadened.

"Very nice shading, attention to detail, and you're easy on the pencil… practiced hand." he continued, eyes fixed critically to the drawing on the table. "Art student, then. Good to know."

"Just an appreciation for physiognomy, actually." She replied, cool, but polite. "One sees so many faces, after all."

He smirked, and the way he looked at her made it clear he didn't believe her.

"Why would I lie about that?" she questioned bluntly, and the smirk faltered.

"I didn't say you had."

A breath of laughter carried her words, "you didn't have to."

She went back to her portrait, but it was no good; she could feel his stare over her shoulder, and she knew he wouldn't possibly just walk away, like she would have preferred. He'd obviously come for a reason.

But he seemed to want to stall. "Who is he?" he tilted his head, indicating the drawing.

"Does it matter?"

"Is he the man you saw?"

She refused him an answer, which was really an answer in itself. Holmes walked slowly to the other end of the table and braced his hands on the back of the chair opposite Louisa.

"You've obviously got a clear image of what the man looked like." Holmes said. "I need that memory."

Louisa flipped her sketchbook shut and straightened her shoulders. "Having more trouble than you thought, then?" She asked, squinting her eyes up at him. "Some ' _details'_ are hard to work through, it's alright. We're all only human."

He narrowed his eyes at her, and she felt a small sense of victory; she'd known the comment would irk him.

"No trace of him in the car, and any trace of him on the victim's body that might have been there is gone now. No one has seen him." His eyes settled on the sketchbook. "No one, aside from you."

"I've given you as good a description as I'm capable of."

"A description is not what I require – _clearly._ I need you to identify him."

"What, out of a line-up?" she asked, nonplussed. Hadn't Holmes just said there was no trace of him?

The detective gave a quick shrug. "Something like that."

She raised her eyebrows at him and he sighed deeply before pulling out the chair and sitting heavily in it. The action was so fluid that Louisa had half the mind to ask if her never danced, but he was opening his mouth to speak now, so she saved it for later.

She heard his slight intake of breath, and then his gaze stuttered back over to the sketchbook, and his mouth promptly shut again.

Internally Sherlock almost wanted to tell her to show him the portrait again, but he knew she wouldn't comply right away, and he wasn't partial to the prospect of wearing her down. He did wonder, quite out of nowhere, how accurate a likeness she'd managed to take.

"Before we begin," he said abruptly, but slowly. "Let me ask you a few questions."

She looked suspicious, and unwilling.

"They'll be easy questions, Miss Daly."

"Oh, well in that case, continue." She said seriously. "Though I'm feeling pretty sharp today. Black is my thinking colour." She reached to pinch the fabric of her buttoned collar, as though tightening an invisible tie, and after a few moments had passed she laughed quietly at the blank stare she was met with. She could tell he was working to make sense of her, and simply could not, which was precisely what she'd been going for; sometimes the only way to snub the arrogance of a man like Sherlock Holmes was to baffle him.

Also, Louisa could tell the Holmes disliked her laugh. Every time she made the sound that hard line would form between his brows, and his mouth would pull back just a little, in an expression that was both confused and paranoid at the same time.

"Go on, Mr Holmes," she said, after giving him ample time to compute.

"Where were you standing when you saw Kaleigh Carlton leave?" He answered her prompt without hesitation, but the look was still there.

She inclined her head into the dining room. "The bar. I was standing at the well, waiting for a margarita."

He followed her line of sight; the bar was perhaps 12 metres away from the front window the waitress likely saw the pair from, close enough for anyone to look through. Daly's drawing, however, was as detailed as though she'd only been mere feet from him. It was clear the girl had dedicated years to drawing things she saw, to sketching her memories. He knew better than to think she was spot-on. Subconscious had most likely supplied the detail her mind had been unable to absorb, patching in bits and pieces from faces she'd seen over the years, but the attempt was strong. A good sign.

"Why do you ask?" She said, but Holmes only gave a tiny shake of the head.

"What sort of shoes did he wear?"

"Brown, leather."

"Brown, not black?"

"I do feel confident with my ability to differentiate between colours."

"Did he wear a wedding ring?"

"No, not a wedding ring. But there was a gold ring on his right hand. Big, tacky thing."

"That'll do."

"What was the point of that?"

Holmes replied easily, "Simply attempting to ensure that to rely on you wouldn't be fruitless."

"Well, that's cleared up now, isn't it?" She said dryly. "Now I'm afraid you've got less than ten minutes of my time before my shift starts, and I'm sure you wouldn't want to impose upon it."

"The killer left behind very little physical evidence – actually, nothing at all, besides this…" he reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a heavy gold ring – _the_ heavy fold ring, a garnet fixed onto the centre. " _This_ tells me the man graduated from Lionsgeld in the Spring of 1992."

"Shouldn't the police have that? It's evidence." She was unable to mask her reproach.

"What would they do with it?" She searched his expression for a hint of irony and found nothing, so she answered. "Look at it, learn from it, I don't know."

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "That's precisely what I'm doing."

Louisa opened her mouth to retort, but no words came to mind besides a logically uttered, "fair enough." Holmes smirked once more and slid the ring back inside the pocket of his jacket, noticing that her eyes followed his movements, and she smiled in a private sort of way.

"What is it?" He demanded immediately, and she turned her eyes back to him in question. "You were thinking something just now, what was it?"

"It's nothing," the grin appeared again anyway, showing a slight dimple in her left cheek. "I had only wondered how you knew the man was so much older than Kaleigh from just the points Doctor Watson told me about, but I reckon now that he didn't remember all of it. Though-" She broke off, looking slightly upwards, at some point above Sherlock's head. " _Now_ I wonder how the police could miss that. I suppose a tear and a scratch could easily be misconstrued, but a ring like that? You can't've found that in the car…"

Sherlock kept silent for a moment, thinking, before he broke in with, "You wonder a lot about strange things."

"I wouldn't call it strange… Why shouldn't _I_ wonder when you so clearly do as well?" She reached out her hands and twitched her wrists so that the cuffs of her shirt sleeves rode up, and away. _No fan of constriction_ – he filed that away. "It's just so curious, after all. It's like a game where all the pieces fit together, you only have to see the hints. But I'm missing the majority of those pieces… does that make sense?"

"Like _which_ pieces?" he sounded a touch impatient. "You can't be cryptic without giving an example, if you want something to make sense."

Louisa settled a hard glance over him, but went on quickly, knowing her time was dwindling and she'd just carried them away on a tangent. "For one – the most obvious one, I should think – I don't understand how you expect to learn the killer's identity just by knowing from where and when he graduated."

"We also know what he looks like, or, _you_ do." Back again, his eyes went to the sketchbook.

"So you'll want me to, what, exactly?" She replied sarcastically. "Scour his yearbook for anyone who resembles a _much_ younger version of the man?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied definitively. "I'm calling to your… prowess for physiognomy."

"We might as well take a shot in the dark."

"I need a name if I want to proceed any further, and this is what we've got to work with."

He sounded so perfectly confident, that she had to agree.

"When?" she said wearily.

"Now."

"I have to work."

"Blow it off," he said, as blasé as a preteen bad-influence.

"Are you going to pay me a weekly salary when I lose my job?"

"The owner would never fire you," he said with an impossible degree of certainty. "He relies on you too much, and his jumpers scream 'sentimental'."

"You'll have to wait until I'm finished," she insisted firmly.

"You do understand this is a _murder_ I'm trying to solve." Sherlock objected, looking incredulous.

"I'm off at ten." She went on, collecting her things. "We can meet at the department round ten-thirty."

"No, not there," Holmes interrupted, full of resigned agitation. "The address is 221B Baker Street."

Louisa checked her watch as she stood, and then nodded as she tied her yellow apron about her waist.

"You should write that down," Holmes advised, sinking into his sulking stage.

She smiled. "I'll remember."

"I'm sure you will," Holmes mumbled, his tone petulant, and as she walked away, she chuckled under her breath.

* * *

Part of Louisa must have expected Holmes to remain at his seat until her shift ended, because when she returned to the section perhaps twenty minutes later she was mildly surprised to see that he'd gone. After all, it wouldn't have been a remarkable occurrence to have him stay and watch her and _not_ eat, after having done so before.

Even more surprising was that blooming feeling of regret at having sent him on his way when he'd been right all along; there was little need for her to stay, with Mel always willing to close and the restaurant being as overstaffed as it usually was on Thursdays. Maggie was cut from service perhaps an hour after it began, and as Louisa watched her go she knew she'd be anticipating the meeting with Holmes all night.

By the time the Red Light closed its doors for the evening the dining room was empty. A few stragglers lingered at the bar which Jimmy kept open a little later than usual, never one to pass up the chance for a handful of pounds. Otherwise, all was silent. Which, was probably why Louisa nearly jumped out of her skin when the sound of her shrill ringtone sliced through that peace like a katana.

She was in the middle of straightening the lowers shelves of the bookcases against the back wall, but now she was digging her mobile out of her apron and then, she was merely staring at the screen with bated breath, thumb poised over the little green dot that would answer the call if she could only bring herself to swipe it. But she was nervous… why was she so _nervous_?

She knew she was running out of time, however, so she squared her shoulders and cleared her throat.

She pressed her thumb to the screen.

"Quinlan," she said, and still her voice came ridiculously close to going hoarse. She cleared her throat again. "Hi."

"Evenin' sis." How long had it been since he'd called? Last Christmas, wasn't it? "How are ya?"

"I'm… magnificent. Majestic." She gave a ditsy sort of chuckle, cleared her throat once more. "I'm a waitress."

"I thought you hated people."

"Not anymore," she smiled. "I'm a social butterfly. My small-talk skills have skyrocketed."

Silence on the other end. After a pause Louisa heard Quinlan's muffled tones, apparently speaking to someone else as he covered the mouth-piece with his hand.

"Then again, maybe not." Louisa muttered. She glanced at her watch. 9:52. She would be needing to leave soon, and there was still much to do.

"Sorry Lou, that was my assistant," Quinlan said, back again as Louisa continued her work; she got to her knees for the last bookshelf as he went on. "I've got a late night with yet another moronic client, so we'll have to make this speedy, yeah?"

The rushed indifference in his voice gave Louisa the impression that for Quinlan, this conversation was a tedious preface to the moronic client, and the result of that impression was a swelling of acute disappointment… But still, he had called. At least he had called.

"I reckon you should start first," she said lightheartedly. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine. I phoned because I just got your email."

Ah, of course. How had she forgotten when that was all she'd been wondering about?

"I can't get away from the office this time of year, Louisa. I never can." In the background she heard the sound of the door shutting close to the phone, as though he'd gotten up and shut it himself. "I know you said you'd come here, but I still won't be able to get away," now the sound of a drawer banging open. "You'll be in my house alone for the holiday, and who wants that? You should be at home, or with your friends. You've made friends in London, I'm sure."

Louisa literally cringed away from the sound of clinking glass echoing on Quinlan's end. She couldn't reply to his question, could only seem to say, "I've never seen your house. I could be in it alone."

"Yeah, but-"

"Or you could stash me in the corner of your office, where I'd read quietly and never deign to notice your existence." She went on.

"I can't just-"

"And you wouldn't have to notice me unless you got bored," she trudged over his words, the music of more clinking glass. "Then when you managed to find thirty minutes to skive I could make you sinkers and follow you back to work afterwards, and read, and ignore you."

"Louisa," Quinlan's voice was firm, and she got the vague sense she was being warned. It was only then she realised she was standing again, and she'd started to shout at him.

All that time she thought she'd sounded sad, and a little (pathetically very) desperate, when in retrospect she heard her own increasingly angry and adamant tones.

She wrapped her right arm over her diaphragm, her left hand still holding the phone to her ear. She took an extremely silent breath.

"Please, don't say no, Quinlan." She said, her voice astoundingly small compared to its last volume.

"I certainly can't say yes, sis." She recognised _that_ tone, that tone which brought the image of his reproachful expression back to her mind as though he were standing right in front of her. Even after all this time, Quinlan was the only one permitted to be hurt. "But I'm not saying no, either. I'll have to move some stuff around – not saying anything definite – but I'll have Chloe get back to you."

Louisa's hand clenched around the phone, and she took a moment, pressing the speaker to her forehead and resisting the urge to stamp her foot.

"She won't ever get back to me, because you'll never tell her to." She said, and though the frustration rose like bile in her throat she was able to quash it, refusing to shout at him again. She could already see how this conversation was bound to pan out, but as always it seemed she would still take it full-circle. Just in case. "You'll forget about this phone call the moment you get to your client."

"Know what? I probably will." She pictured the harsh shrug of his shoulders. "Because life has a way of morphing a person into a stress-fueled ball of forgetfulness, Louisa. I've got enough going on, you know I have. Right now I'm working on two separate lawsuits for property-damage and things like that only escalate towards the close of the year. Perkins has just left – not that I was begging him to stay – but I certainly cannot fathom how we'll find the time to replace him. My neighbour's tree fell onto my garage and the gardener's mangled my shrubs, apparently under the impression that _this_ would encourage me to pay him a Christmas bonus."

In spite of the ever-spreading anger Louisa found the brainpower to wonder, "You have a gardener? How big is your place?"

"Big enough that I pay someone to manage the lawn," was the curt reply. "The point is that I can't very easily heap more onto my plate. I'm close to popping as it is."

"Poor Lanny," she bit out sarcastically, aware that Jimmy's prying eyes were fixed on her from the bar. "What a plight the wee thing is under, being asked to let his sister come for a holiday visit."

"Alright, enough now." Quinlan said with authority, and Louisa felt a vein threaten to burst in her forehead.

"Not enough, Quinlan." She cried, her voice going hoarse again. She turned her back to the bar, wondering how some people lacked the tact to look away during moments that had nothing to do with them. "It's been seven years… It's Thanksgiving."

"It's been four. And it's not even a real holiday for us, Lou. Just something Dad liked to bring up every year because he fancied a turkey before the Christmas ham."

"You used to love Thanksgiving." She reminded him. "Besides, _that_ time doesn't count, and even if it did, it would hardly help your argument. Or do you really want to delve deeper into it?"

"No, I don't."

"Then don't. And don't say no." She persisted. "Let me come see you. I need to see you. There's no way it'll be as terrible as you seem to imagine."

"Louisa, I can't." There was a deep sigh, and is she hadn't been so furious, if the sound of clinking glass hadn't been playing on a loop in the back of her head, drowning out her ability to be objective, she might have been able to hear the actual regret lying under the surface of his words. "I just can't."

"Have you been drinking?" She blurted, finally. The sentence refused to be silenced any longer.

Or, perhaps she was wishing deep down that he would simply hang up, snuff the conversation, because he did, immediately.

He'd snuffed the conversation, and once again Louisa had taken on the role of giving him a reason to do it.

She nearly lobbed her mobile across the dining room, had gone so far as to imagine the satisfaction she would have felt to watch all the plastic crack an shatter against the carpeted floor. Instead, she stifled a sob and used the phone, for once, to tell her the time.

Her head fell back as she started at the rafters above, willing the tears to sink back into their ducts. 10:00, on the dot.

"Fuck," she breathed, drawing the word out into some crossbreed of a growl and a sigh.

She was going to be late.

* * *

After that she moved without much thought to her actions. Louisa reckoned she must have finished closing and started on her trek to Baker Street. It took her twenty minutes to get there, but she hardly remembered the journey. She knew she'd walked slowly, because the cold had set in her bones, and she typically took her time when navigating an unfamiliar route.

Now Louisa bounced on the balls of her feet despite their ache, trying to warm herself as she peered at her surroundings, surprised even at herself for having made it here so easily.

A small feeling of confusion blossomed as she took in the sight of a neat wall of wide, smoothened bricks, the door which looked black as ink in the nighttime; clearly a building of residential flats, _not_ any sort of police station. She thought back to the address Holmes had given her, the way he'd suggested she write it down, and only the frightful prospect of proving him right could propel her to forget the suspicious setting and ring the bell.

A full minute passed and Louisa rang twice more, not even considering the possibility she might wake someone until an elderly woman answered the door, clutching a cotton dressing gown closed over her chest and blinking at Louisa through bleary eyes.

"Oh! I'm so sorry." Louisa said hurriedly. "Please forgive me, I have the wrong address."

"Send her up, Mrs Hudson!" A voice bellowed, muffled almost beyond hearing as its owner was presumably holed away upstairs.

"On you go, sweetheart." The lady called Mrs Hudson said.

"Alright," Louisa bowed her head meekly as she stepped over the threshold. "Again, sorry."

"It's no trouble," Mrs Hudson smiled kindly, but she was still clearly half-asleep. "We'll have proper introductions another time, perhaps."

"Perhaps." Louisa's own smile was tight with leftover embarrassment. She watched the old woman shuffle through the door down the short passage, just to make sure she didn't fall or something. The way she favoured one leg did, after all, suggest her hip had gone through the ringer. Then Louisa hesitated another moment, simply struggling against the swift, startling wave of apprehension invading her stomach. It wasn't a strong feeling, but it was unexpected.

From where she stood at the bottom of the stair, one foot balanced on the last step, she could see a door up above, through the gap underneath it. For only a moment she found a phrase flying through her mind's eye in loopy script, not unlike her own writing… a random phrase that sprung up from some seldom-explored corner of her brain; for a moment she could see it scrawled in the air above the door, circling over it like the Latin motto of some decrepit, foreboding gothic church.

Here Be Dragons.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ Helllloooo oh gosh I've really missed this project. It feels like it's been forever, though I know it hasn't been. Anyway, I'd apologise for the ridiculous wait between chapters this time, but I'm sure any of you kind readers who've experienced a student's life will sympathise with me entirely. I was reading through the reviews, though, and you all had such nice things to say that I do feel a little bad that I've waited so long to update. It's too bad I can't just write all the time, I think I'd be a much happier person. We all would, actually.

That said, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's the first of two parts, the second of which will be uploaded tomorrow. I tried nearly a week ago to post the chapters back-to-back, and I got an error message that scared the heck out of me, so I certainly shall not be taking that chance again. Don't worry, though. This one's short, but the next one is long, and it's already written, edited, etc. I just want to wait at least twenty-four hours before uploading again, ye feel me?

Lots of genuine love to you all,

Emily.


	6. Chatting with Skulls

**As the Starling Says** **Volume One**

 **Chapter Five Pt. 2**

* * *

221B might have been a nice place indeed, with a fresh coat of pain in some areas, a good wall-scrubbing, and copious amounts of organisation. The mess was almost astounding as it hugged the edges of the sitting room, with every surface available smothered by folders and plastic file envelopes. The occasional half-empty mug of coffee stood out as sentinels amidst rises and falls of paper in every form.

She could tell by the neatness of the actual sitting area that someone kept the mess at bay, limited only to the tables and desk that hunched just near the windows.

"Why didn't you come to answer the door?" Louisa demanded. "I dragged that poor woman from her bed."

Holmes didn't bother to look at her, lounging regally in a chair behind the desk. "You're later than you said you'd be." He replied.

"I rang three times."

"Hmm," he hummed, and that was all. He simply stared at her, in that way which seemed unique to him. Then, his nose twitched, and he sniffed at the air. "Have you been drinking?"

She gave a humourless smile that seemed out of place with its irony.

"No," she answered, thinking of Quinlan.

"You're lying," his eyes narrowed.

"I'm not." She laughed. "I never drink."

"Then why are you smiling?"

She pulled off her coat, shifting her hair, which had been let down most likely to keep her neck from the touch of open air. "Because you're the fourth person to ask me that." She stepped onto the rug. "The first three were guests, and yet out of all of them, you look the most alarmed."

"If you weren't drinking, how is the pungent smell of alcohol permeating my flat?"

"What, is it covering the natural aroma of formaldehyde and tobacco?" She said sardonically. "I was holding a tray with two glasses of scotch, the hostess crashed into me, and I'll leave the rest for you to infer." She rushed through her explanation and quickly segued into, "Do you always interrogate a guest before you invite them to a seat?"

"When I want to know things, yes. Always." Holmes answered simply.

"And do you _always_ want to know such trivial things?"

"There isn't a trivial thing about me," he scoffed. "I want to know if you've compromised the integrity of your judgement, and therefore set to wasting my time."

"Mr Holmes…"

"Yes?"

"Would you _please_ invite me to a seat?" She asked politely, but with obvious discomfort. "I've just been running for eleven hours."

Sherlock took a deep breath and swept a careless hand towards the sitting area, and right away Louisa threw herself into the wide grey one, which looked as though it had been owned for decades. She slipped off her shoes and left them on the floor next to her, stretching out her legs and wriggling her socked toes.

"You've got weak arches," Holmes informed her. "If you'd wear inserts your feet wouldn't ache so much." The suggestion might have passed for courteous concern, but for his tone which implied he thought her foolish for not thinking of it already.

She frowned at him. "I'll bear that in mind."

The silence that took them lasted until a heavy footfall was heard coming through the corridor, and then there was a falling body, hitting the floor with a slightly squelchy thud.

"Bloody _hell_ ," was uttered with the utmost feeling, and as the person struggled to his feet, wet skin squeaking as it slid against the wood flooring, Louisa instantly recognised him as Doctor Watson, naked as his name day but for the fluffy white bath towel he fought to keep tight at his waist.

Louisa was caught completely off-guard, not having come remotely close to suspecting Dr Watson and Holmes were friendly enough to keep a flat-share together; she would never have imagined a man like Sherlock sharing his space with _anyone_ besides his landlady.

"Nope, I don't need any help Sherlock, but I appreciate the offer." Watson complained, highly agitated as he bunched the ends of the towel together with one hand. Then, finally, he looked up into the sitting room, and the violent shade of magenta that stained his cheeks as he set eyes on Louisa, perched in Sherlock's chair, was enough to mortify the both of them. "Oh, hello."

"Evening." She trilled, turning her face resolutely to the ceiling, examining the light splotches of dried water.

"I wasn't expecting company," John chuckled, his voice cracking slightly as he added, "Thanks again, Sherlock."

"I told you less than twenty minutes ago that Miss Daly would be joining us." Sherlock defended, though he sounded extremely bored.

"Yes, well, I was in the shower, wasn't I?"

Sherlock only shrugged. John stared hard at him for a moment, cheeks still flushed, and then he marched towards the back of the flat (most likely for the solace of the toilet) in the manner of someone trying to appear entirely unembarrassed.

"You aren't very considerate, are you?" Louisa observed, and Holmes pulled a face.

"I _did_ tell him you were coming." He replied, and the fervent quality in his tone led Louisa to the conclusion that to pursue the issue would be futile.

"Shall we get to it, then?" She continued, showing nothing more than a lost-at-sea expression. "I have to wake up early tomorrow." She had a three-hour class set at eight in the morning.

Holmes practically leapt to his feet and headed for his computer.

"Go sit there." He ordered, pointing a single unbending finger at the seat across from where she sat. Already knowing he would be required to explain, he said, "I prefer to sit where you are, so."

The girl complied readily enough, with no further argument or rebuke. Satisfied, he picked up a thick volume from beside his computer, bound in plain back leather and embossed in gold thread depicting a roaring lion. He hardly closed the distance between where he stood and where Louisa sat before flinging it to her, but she managed to catch it.

"We're lucky the man is so old. Yearbooks have really gone out of fashion this past decade."

"How did you get this so quickly?" Louisa asked, letting the heavy book fall open in her lap. She ran her fingers over the page, pleasantly glossy under her touch.

The page she'd turned to featured a large monochrome shot of a group of smiling students clustered round a single table littered with papers, which were unidentifiable from the quality of the photo.

 _Dean's Entrepreneurs of Tomorrow – Sophomoric Division_ the caption read, followed by a subline which said, _Patrick Makenna, First Member, Third from Right_. Louisa never bothered with finding Patrick Makenna as Holmes gave his speech, already flipping to where she might find the portraits of the graduating class.

"I called the university the same day I found the ring and asked the administrators to put me in contact with anyone who graduated from the class of 1992. There were quite a few people to call but it wasn't long before I found someone who possessed a copy." He told her, coming behind her chair to look over her shoulder, watching as she found the proper section. "He was more than happy to send it over, and he lives relatively close. It was child's play."

Louisa nodded her silent understanding, and Holmes put in a question of his own.

"Have you found him yet?" She shivered as she felt his breath ruffle the hair tickling her neck and looked up at him, annoyance held tight as she realised how close he'd gotten.

"When I find him, you'll be the first to know."

Sherlock was kept from replying by the reentrance of John, mercifully dressed, but clearly still perturbed. He straightened right away and went to his chair, sitting down silently.

Looking at him in his black jacket and beaten trainers Louisa could tell that John was an average sort of man, at least where his personal life was concerned. To work with Sherlock Holmes, he had to have a certain craving for intrigue, but in his downtime he clearly didn't put as much weight into finery and appearances as his friend did.

Where John wore jeans that hid how skinny his calves actually were and had obviously forgotten to comb his hair after his shower, Holmes still wore the blue oxford shirt and neat, pressed black trousers from earlier on in the day. But his face was kinder than the detective's, and he had a pleasant way of speaking that made him relatable.

He gave an awkward smile now.

"Sorry again, about before."

"Don't mention it," Louisa said, and she was grateful when Watson changed the subject. He shifted his gaze to Sherlock, eyes growing considerably cooler.

"I'll be going now."

"Going?" Holmes blinked. "Going where?"

"To Mary's. She's only just got home." John said, hoping this wouldn't turn into an argument.

Sherlock ventured back to his chair and crossed one leg over the other, the fingers of his right hand playing a soft beat on the arm of the seat. Internally, he was thoughtful.

"Alright. Goodnight." He said, but still John lingered at the door for as long as he dared, truly expecting more.

"Yeah, goodnight."

Then the doctor was gone.

Feeling that Holmes was somehow actually upset, Louisa ducked her head over the yearbook lying open in her lap, shoulders hunched and expression intent. What she didn't expect was that Mr Holmes stayed silent and still for quite a long time; scanning through the first page of photographs had taken ten minutes at least, as she willed her mind to visualise wrinkles and weathered skin on each face she saw. When she picked her head up and looked at Sherlock, his neck was still turned, eyes fixed on the door Watson had gone through.

He looked so lost in thought that Louisa was convinced he'd deleted her from his awareness entirely, and with that it occurred to her that this was one of the many phases to the detective that she had yet to see. She'd seen him alone and silent before, had seen him calm, but _this_ was new, different. He was _somewhere_ , but whatever that place happened to be was not in the flat with her.

Once again she noted the slightly wide set of his eyes, the delicate, clear blue calling to mind the image of a mischievous child, hardly through primary school. His hair was also juvenile, somewhat, with the way it swept to his brow and curled against his forehead. But the eyes were sharp, the brows determined, the forehead strong and permanent. He was an automaton with a sweet tooth, a cold genius with all the drawbacks of childish ignorance and insensitivity.

And, right now, he was jealous.

Louisa sincerely doubted that Holmes held any romantic inclination for Doctor Watson, in fact doubted that Holmes was even capable of such emotion; she could see a lot in his face, but the potential for tangible tenderness was nowhere to be found. And, suspecting that, Louisa reckoned that he had no friendly attachment in the world beyond kind-faced Watson. She could see the idea alone of John forming a separate life bothered him enough to dwell for… she checked her watch, though at that point watch-minding was just a compulsion to monitor her accuracy… seventeen minutes.

 _And here you are,_ she teased herself, _trying to crack into this man's brain for four of those minutes._

She smiled consciously and turned back to the yearbook, knowing that the only hope of making a clean exit from this place was to find Holmes a solution.

There were more faces than she though there would be, or perhaps her eyes had simply begun to droop and blur them all together. The soft, low, wonderfully warm lighting of this flat was not at all helpful, and after a while each new portrait she leered at looked the same as the one before it.

"This is exactly why I suggested you skip work." Holmes murmured, a soft sound, but sudden enough to make Louisa's head shoot up, giving her a crick in her neck. When had she become so nervous? She was always jumping now.

"Sorry?" she massaged the aggravated muscle. It appeared that he hadn't moved since she started back into the yearbook rabbit hole, beyond uncrossing his legs. She wondered how long it had been since he reentered the atmosphere.

"You're falling asleep." He explained, actually sounding a bit less disdainful than he usually might have.

"You're just as tired as I am," she accused, and then in an undertone, "if I could just come back tomorrow…"

"Well you can't." he tossed his gaze away from her in a manner that managed to be haughty and nonchalant at once.

Louisa shrank away from the prospect of starting an argument and said nothing. She went back to the faces, sighing mournfully.

"You are perfectly capable of doing it, you know." Holmes said calmly, drawing her attention to him once more. "You aren't really trying."

"I'm giving myself a headache over here."

"Barely an effort," he insisted, disregarding her.

"Could you pick out a picture of Mrs Hudson at twenty-two from a book of three hundred choices?"

"That's hardly the same thing. Mrs Hudson is sixty-four. Your man is forty-two. Much less of a… decline." Holmes responded with an arrogance that made Louisa scoff. "Even so I could do it, much more quickly than you."

Annoyed, Louisa reached into the bag at her feet and threw Holmes her sketchbook. He seemed to take the point as he caught it, saying, "A drawing pales in comparison to memory. Even the most practiced of artists have difficulty capturing exactly what's in their mind. Your accuracy could be questionable."

Louisa rolled her eyes, and Sherlock just as quickly reciprocated.

"I didn't say that it _is_ , Miss Daly, I said that it _could_ be." He stood up, again in a sudden movement, full of a quick alacrity that Louisa could easily envy. He placed the sketchbook on the desk, right where the yearbook had been. Then, he reached into one of the drawers for a thick red marker.

He turned where he stood, planted his backside against the desk, and folded his arms.

"If I memorised each line of your drawing, you'd still have a better chance of finding a match. If you would – as they say – put your back into it."

"You obviously want to tell me how it's done, Mr Holmes." Louisa said, eyes stuck on the red marker protruding from Holmes' closed fist like a professor's laser-pointer. He smirked as he straightened up and stalked over to her. He held out his hand for the yearbook and she slapped it into his palm willingly. She curled her feet underneath her.

"I'm going to give you an example." He told her, expression shrewd. "Pay attention."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir." She deadpanned, and then snorted heartily at her own wit.

It didn't even bother her that Sherlock's mouth turned down, and only sobered when he said, "take off your coat."

"What?" she frowned. "Why? It's cold."

"You just answered your own question." Sherlock replied. "I keep the temperature low when I'm thinking. Straighten up as well – the more alert you are, the less prone you may be to bouts of silliness."

She threw him an unhappy pout but obliged anyway. Again, there was no point in arguing.

"No chance you would take coffee, I'm sure," Holmes said hopefully, and Louisa shook her head, blinking her eyes hard as though the action would make them feel less heavy.

"Not the faintest." She agreed. "I can do it. I'm fine."

Holmes searched her face, trying to gauge her diligence. He seemed to find it, as he said, "this example is only to engage your mind to the task. Once you've seen the method you can apply it yourself."

Within a moment he'd dragged his chair forwards, closer to hers, the feet scraping gently over the rug. He sat down, nearly bumping knees with Louisa who fought off another yawn. He opened the book and found the page she began on quickly, and then he held it up, turning it around so that it faced her, letting the end of the volume rest atop his lap.

"I hope I can assume that you have at least a rudimentary understanding of the process of elimination." Holmes stated, and she humoured him with an affirming nod. "Then you should follow easily enough; firstly, you told me the man was olive-skinned, darker in complexion. You also said he had silver in his hair, but obviously at some point it was dark brown or black, yes?" he didn't wait for her to answer. "Knowing this, we can eliminate twelve of these faces based on the paleness of their skin – all clearly white men. Then we can scratch off three for having much _darker_ skin than the killer, and nine for being female. And, like that, there is only one portrait left."

To make a visual Sherlock flipped the book around to face him once more, and then, off came the cap of the marker; he began slashing a bold line of red ink over each of the portraits he ruled out, saying, "to be perfectly frank I find this method to be wholly unnecessary for such a simple task, but taking into account your state of fatigue I think it will help lessen the 'sensory overload', if you will. You go on like this until you reach the end-"

Louisa leaned in and stretched out a hand to seize the book from him, a reprimand hanging on the end of her tongue, but he snatched it out of her reach and snapped, "don't interrupt, nearly through."

"That's someone's yearbook you've just vandalised, Sherlock." She said immediately.

The detective's expression suddenly fell loose, and he glanced up at the book he still held at his shoulder. "Right…" he looked slightly confused for a moment, like a dog who'd forgotten whether or not it'd been the one to chew the newspaper, but in the next he was shrugging, opening the book back on top of his lap. "Well, it's too late to turn back now."

She laughed aloud at his reasoning, and instead of frowning at the sound, as he typically did, he appeared a little gratified.

"So, is this the man you saw?" he asked, and she leaned even further in, eyes squinted.

"No. The nose is way too thin."

"Well, there you have it." He handed her the book, and once she took it, the marker. "Don't forget to scratch the tan men with significantly lighter hair."

"This'll take ages." Louisa commented mildly.

"Be thankful this is an independent university we're looking at." Holmes responded. "A public one would in all likelihood be twice this size, if not thrice."

"Thrice!" She cried, laughing again. "What even _are_ you, Mr Holmes?"

"Unamused."

Still, she smiled enough for the both of them as he stood. "Use the marker. The visual really does help."

As he made his way to stand in front of one of the windows, she debated internally against aiding in the destruction of someone else's property. She watched him pick up the violin she'd noticed some time ago resting in a case next to a stand of blank music sheets. She hoped he might play, as she had been curious about his skill, but he only cradled the thing under his chin and plucked a few chords, too random and separate to be called a melody; he picked up his bow after a moment, but still only plucked away every now and then. While she wondered what _that_ was about, she also made up her mind that any repercussions for the tarnished memories were the detective's problem.

Halfway through the thick section of pages, Holmes' phone went off, attracting Louisa's attention. The man only glanced at his mobile before putting it back to sleep.

"Don't slow down." He told her.

"It must be a quarter after midnight, at least." She pleaded, and as though it were nothing more than habit he pressed a button on the side of his mobile, simply to see if she was right. Just as the clock flashed onto the screen, the time shifted to 12:13. He set the violin on the little table near the stand, slid his mobile back into his trousers pocket, and fixed her with a firm stare.

"You're tired, I understand, but I need a name, and I need it tonight." Real frustration saturated his words for the first time that night, and it was an emotion Louisa had not missed from him. "Six days have passed and with each one I lose, the killer's chances of walking free increase _exponentially_. Unfortunately for the both of us, I am unable to rely on any aid from anyone other than yourself, and _you_ can't seem to focus for longer than fifteen minutes at a time."

"I might be more focused if I-"

"Hadn't just gotten through an eleven hour shift, yes, you've said." Holmes cut her off, voice slightly raised. "Look at the yearbook."

She did as he said, if only to stop him seeing the anger in her face. She attempted to bring up the image of Kaleigh Carlton's face, her life before it had been taken from her, tried to gain some motivation. She wasn't angry for what Holmes said; he was right about the urgency, there was no denying that. But, his complete lack of etiquette struck a nerve reserved for her highest of pet peeves.

"Now clear your mind of everything but the task at hand." He seemed to be calming down now. "Cross out the pictures that don't fit the criteria. If you put your mind to it you should have it done in a matter of minutes."

Louisa marked portrait after portrait, striving for efficiency. Dimly she could hear Holmes, still speaking, but the sound of his low, deliberate voice was fading, as though putting her in a trance.

"… Then we'll be able to narrow down the results by the most prominent facial features – jawline, nose, teeth – the sorts of features that don't wrinkle." He was saying, and Louisa turned to the next page.

"… I suppose if we haven't found him by then we can always cut the pictures out, line them up…" She turned again.

"… Really anyone should be able to do this. Facial recall is a practical skill, is it not? Yet John laughs because _apparently_ the sun goes round the bloody moon, or the earth. Or… the earth goes round the sun...?" Here he trailed off, arms folded, face turned towards the ceiling with pursed lips, and Louisa turned the page yet again. This time, her eye eventually latched onto something promising.

She slid her face closer to the page, the thirty-seventh page she'd been through to be exact. As Sherlock began to mumble quietly to himself, Louisa's nose nearly bumped against the smooth surface, brows twisted with concentration.

A mere second before, she'd been about to drag a red "x" over this particular face, put off by the colour of his hair, which was a shade lighter than she'd been expecting. But the set of his eyes stilled her hand for another second, the way his lower jaw seemed to drop like a heavy square from the rest of his face. Her heart seemed to quite literally plummet, and all the while Holmes prattled on under his breath, looking both pained and oblivious. For a full minute Louisa watched him, unable to _not_ be entertained.

"Mr Holmes," Louisa finally spoke up, when it seemed as though he was in danger of going on forever. The look he settled on her was one of pure annoyance. "If I give you a name, will you be able to search it now?"

"If you're suggesting we search every name-"

"I'm not suggesting anything," she interrupted again. "I'm asking you a question: can you search a name now?"

"I could."

She circled the picture and held the book up to him, spine resting against the palm of her hand. Holmes bent at the waist to examine it.

"Iskandar Ervin." She said, hopeful of triumph. "Search it, please. I'm certain it's him."

He looked dubious – so dubious she might have been insulted if she had the energy for it.

"Look him up, Mr Holmes. If I'm wrong you'll waste no more than a few minutes, I'm sure."

He swiped the book from her hands without a word and took it to his desk, where he sat quickly and opened his laptop.

"Do you have access to the federal database?" She asked, the question only just occurring to her. She wondered how much power he could have, with a title such as Consulting Detective.

"To a certain extent, and only under ideal circumstances." He replied automatically, and then his fingers went to work, clacking away over the keyboard.

She took his detachment from reality as an opportunity to tuck her feet back underneath her, where they belonged. With the computer throwing an unnatural, blue-tinted light on the detective's face, she couldn't help but wonder when he'd last slept.

Perhaps only three minutes passed before Sherlock had pulled up a profile of Iskandar Ervin, and he double-clicked onto a headshot of the man. The moment he saw it Sherlock knew Miss Daly had found the right one; the picture she'd drawn was _remarkably_ like him, capturing the shrewd quality of the man's eyes and the heavy jowls, even the way the hair was combed away from the man's ears as a regular style. She'd seen everything.

She was watching him as he worked, so she didn't miss how he turned his head over to her, and there was a flash of something in his eyes that was impossible to identify. But, once he registered that she was paying attention to him, the flash was gone and he'd looked away. "He's here," Sherlock announced, beckoning her over. He didn't watch her get up, but the smell of scotch growing stronger told him she was now just over his shoulder.

He glanced up at her again, just for a moment, and had a double-take as he spied the almost dopey grin on her face.

"What have you got to be so proud of?" he asked in mixed tones of incredulity and more irritation.

"Well I was right. I found him."

As he swiveled the chair round to face her, the smile slowly slid away.

"What?" She questioned, dumbly.

"The only thing you've done is proven that you were flopping about before." He said quickly. "You found the right face within minutes once you properly applied yourself, as I said many times. No matter, however-" he quirked a brow. "At least, from now on, I'll know to account for your laziness."

The smile only returned, this time giving her a general mien of innocent amusement.

"Yes, but I _found_ him."

"'Identified' would be the correct term, and you're hardly the first witness to do so." Sherlock mumbled, but by then she'd wandered to the mantelpiece. He concentrated on her movements, filed little snapshots of her behaviour into the mental portfolio he'd started for her in his head.

She was speaking. "I know, but I never thought I'd be involved in something so important." She leant with her left arm against the mantle and gazed at the skull she found at the end of it. "I love this _city_ ," she sighed, running her finger over its crown. She might have been speaking exclusively to the skull as she went on. "Three months I've been here, and all London has done is beg me to stay. 'Do you need a place to stay, Louisa…? Why, have Pelcourt Street. How about a job? There's the perfect one… Here's a beautiful university to learn from, amiable people to work with, and just for good measure,'" she glanced back at him casually. "'I'll throw in a bit of adventure.'"

Holmes completely shocked her by laughing. Not a smirk or a snort of derision, but a genuine, low, rumbling sort of laugh.

"Is _this,"_ he gestured around the room in a general way. "Really your idea of adventure?"

She smiled and folded her arms, glancing down at her toes. "No, I suppose it isn't. Not to men like you. But I've always preferred to start small."

"You're speaking nonsense." Sherlock told her. "You can't have any idea of what life is really like."

"Not as of yet, no. But I'm learning," she said. "And so far I'm enraptured with all that I've seen."

He thought of at least another twenty follow-up questions, but the computer was calling at him.

"You're distracting me," he said bluntly, but Louisa only shrugged and continued her examination of the skull.

After several minutes of steady silence Sherlock reached out his hand, palm flat in the air as though balancing an invisible serving tray.

"Get my phone and dial Lestrade for me," he said.

"You put your mobile into your pocket a while ago," Louisa reminded him. "May I pick this up?"

He glanced over as he patted his pockets for the phone, finding that she'd made her way over to the music stand, and was pointing at the Stradivarius on the table near it.

Sherlock found the DI's number in his Contacts and set it to ringing, shaking his head in an impatient negative.

"I finally get to sleep at a decent time, and like clockwork you break it all up." Lestrade croaked after the third ring, though he sounded alert enough.

"I have a gift for you." Sherlock said. "But first, did you get the results from Kruz's blood sample?"

"She was clean, though a right bloody mess in the way of mood."

Sherlock watched Louisa absently as she got to her knees in front of the table, pushing her face ridiculously close to the violin and revolving her head every now and then to change her perspective.

"Sherlock," Lestrade groaned, in the same sort of exasperated tone he was wont to use whenever Holmes went out of the conversation. "Did you hear me?"

"No," Sherlock said quietly, and then to Louisa he snapped, "Take it and go over there. You're distracting me."

In a heartbeat she swept the violin from the table and went towards the kitchen, testing the weight of the instrument in her hands with a pleased sort of look turning up the corners of her lips.

"Go on, Lestrade." Sherlock instructed, once she was out of sight.

"I said the results are pretty much pointless, now we know for a fact the victim went off with someone else."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I've _always_ known for a fact. According to you it was necessary to cover the bases, so cover them we did."

"Well, while we're on the topic, I remember you mentioning the witness you spoke with said the girl left at about ten o'clock…"

"Yes, and?"

"Anna Kruz told the police they left the restaurant once the place was closing, about eleven."

"Well that wasn't the truth, now, was it?"

"The girl lied?"

"Of course the girl lied."

"Why?"

"Because she's a sixteen year old child who knows the truth about the murder of another sixteen year old child, with whom she happened to be close." Sherlock said, as though speaking to an imbecile. "Kruz wouldn't breathe a word of what she knows unless she was certain no one would come after her for blowing the whistle, which, obviously, she couldn't have been. Though, for right now at least, we don't need Anna Kruz to tell the truth."

"No?"

"No. I've already found him."

" _We_ found him!" Louisa chimed in a soft, sing-song voice from somewhere in the kitchen. The words were followed by a few clumsy, quiet notes from the violin, but Sherlock ignored them both.

"His name is Iskandar Ervin, he owns a public-relations firm in Liverpool."

"But why has he done it?"

"Motives are for later; you can get it out of him however you like once you've found him." Sherlock spouted off the address of Ervin's home, repeating it once before Lestrade could ask, as he definitively would have. "That's about two hours from where you are now. I'd start driving soon."

Hearing soft footsteps from the back of the flat, Sherlock ended the call on Lestrade and shouted, "Is that my bedroom you're invading?"

Instead of answering right away the waitress shuffled through the narrow corridor before reemerging into the sitting room. She only looked about half as sheepish as she probably should have been.

"Bedroom. Yours, yes." She admitted, leaning back against the doorframe. "I didn't search through anything."

" _That's_ a lie." Holmes replied, but he actually looked as though he were a single tick away from smiling.

"No, really." She insisted, visualising the contents of his immaculately arranged wardrobe. "I only wanted a look at your duvet."

"Some people would consider that a severe intrusion upon privacy."

"I wouldn't," she said earnestly. "If you want something hidden, lock it away. Any drawer or door that can be opened in my flat is fair game to shift through, as far as I'm concerned."

"I doubt many others would share that opinion with you."

"But you would," she smiled and he smiled as well, but his was of a mocking variety.

"And I assume you can tell that just from looking at me."

"Yes," she chuckled, full of confidence. "It also helps that I've just spent nearly two hours alone with you."

His only response was to lift his brows in silent, condescending disagreement as he stood and removed his jacket. Somehow, it was the first time she'd seen him without it.

"So, that's it, then?" she asked, unsure of what to do. The removal of his jacket seemed like a gesture of finality, but now that it was done, it seemed impossible that it _should_ be done.

He picked up a black book from the desk, her sketchbook she'd nearly forgotten, and handed it to her. She took it without looking and ventured to her bag on the floor, sliding the book inside absentmindedly. Holmes appeared content to see her off without further ado, but still, every end of this case was loose, and she found that she had to voice that opinion.

"Lestrade won't find him." Holmes turned to her with little interest. "There's no way Ervin would remain at home."

"Unless he is a fool, I know," Holmes agreed. "But that's only the first place they'll check. Now that I know who he is I'll be able to track him."

He grabbed a newspaper from a pile on the desk and flapped it open as he sat in his chair. That was goodbye, she knew, and with that, she headed for the door. She paused in the doorframe and glanced back at him, grinning. "Mr Holmes?"

He hummed lowly, like an irritated cat.

"The Earth goes round the sun."

His eyes stabbed into hers from over the paper, and she stayed long enough to let him see her grin before leaving.

* * *

Curiosity can eat a person alive – can eat _any_ person alive, really, no matter the strength of their free will; all it takes is the proper subject, and in the blink of the eye a one could be driven to do what they knew they never would.

After two days of an absolute drought of news regarding Iskandar Ervin, Louisa Daly found herself lounging on her patio in the early morning of Sunday, which followed her late night with Holmes. She had her breakfast tea held in one hand, her mobile in the other, scrolling through her third story on John Watson's blog.

She'd started out with nothing but the cleanest of intentions, really. All she wanted was to know what had come of Ervin, whether Holmes had managed to find him, and even Maggie had been severely lacking in the information department. So, she'd taken her search to the internet, figuring that she ought to take more on an interest in current events anyway.

Genuine coverage of the Carlton case, however, was hard to find – which isn't at all to say that there was nothing – there were loads of articles, pictures of Ervin and Carlton which only varied from each other in the captions editors stuck below them. There was nothing important, nothing she hadn't already known. The only vaguely intriguing bit about the news she found was how venomous some of the reporters were about the whole thing… pre-Ervin reveal, that is.

The smattering of articles which were written before Louisa had been able to put a name to Ervin were all centred entirely in Holmes, condemning him as an attention-seeking fraud, much as Maggie had done the first time she told Louisa the story of Kaleigh Carlton's death. Now, of course, they'd changed their tune, claiming to have seen the importance of Holmes' theory from the beginning, imploring anyone and everyone to keep their eyes out for the dastardly Ervin, should he happen to barrel through the Strand wielding a weapon, looking to kill again.

But… and this is where things took a mysterious turn for the bored and entertainment-starved Louisa: the articles were so dripped with familiarity that she had to know more.

From the way reporters spoked of him (a direct quote from a particularly long-winded article titled, _Sherlock Holmes: Seeing Through the Extraneous or Creating False Hysteria? –_ was as follows: "it is, of course, very possible that foul play was the catalyst which cut down the beautiful, promising youth Kaleigh Carlton, but the natural skeptics among us remain assured that the proclamations of Mr Holmes are nothing more than a flop attempt at proving his own importance. Holmes, known to London as the pompous prince of private-investigation, may very well be cutting through the mundanity of the rest of our assumptions, but _this_ reporter firmly believes that "murder" is simply the self-proclaimed sociopaths favourite word…") it was clear as day that Sherlock Holmes was something of a household name – one which people both loved and hated on an apparently ever-changing basis.

So, he was famous then. She'd suspected as much once, had even mentally compared him to Antoine Douglas in the way of small celebrity. This was different, deeper.

And there lies the story of how Louisa stumbled (the word "stumbled" in this context meaning, "searched for veraciously") on John Watson's site. When she'd first found it she huffed a laugh, thinking it was too rich, too perfect. Then, when she discovered that each entry had been written by none other than the good doctor himself, she laughed again.

"Ask and you shall receive," she'd muttered aloud, completely delighted and acutely ashamed of herself simultaneously.

She started off with an entry titled, " _A Study in Pink"_ , it being the first mention of Sherlock Holmes. It didn't go into very much detail about how the pair had come to know each other, and the descriptive language left something to be desired. The retired Army doctor could hardly be counted upon as a talented writer, however, so she let it pass, and enjoyed the blog for what it was.

By the time the clock turned to eleven, Louisa had skipped around Watson's blog as though it were her mission. She tore through " _The Robin's Roost", "The Secret Accountant",_ and – so far the most interesting of them all – " _The Case of the Missing Victim"_.

Eventually, she lay down her phone, eyes strained from blinking down at its tiny screen. She balled her fists against them, feeling somewhat shell-shocked.

She'd known he was remarkable, it was easy to gather from the proud set of his shoulders and his manner of speaking as though anyone within earshot should be hanging on his every word. But, according to Watson and a half-dozen fan-sites Sherlock could take one look at you and evaluate your relationship with your family, your occupation, education-level, and how you spent your downtime.

The blog answered some nagging questions Louisa had had, such as _why_ New Scotland Yard would contract a civilian so concretely, or why he fell into bouts of analytical silence at times when he looked at her, but so far she'd yet to see any example from him of what he was really capable of. It got her wondering why he hadn't spouted off about _her_ life, when that was, as Watson had put it, one of his favourite pastimes.

Then, almost as though reality had decided to have her back, the sound of the buzzer drew Louisa from her patio, and back into her sitting room. She went to the door and held her finger to the speaker.

"Hello?"

"Louisa Daly?"

"Yes, this is she," Louisa responded, curious. It was a man who spoke, his voice nasally and unpleasant.

"I have a delivery for you, from one Mr Stimple."

Louisa lifted her finger from the button, hesitating; the only thing she could reckon was the delivery was the Christmas-themed apron Laurence had been pondering over last week, and she considered, just for a moment, that she might be able to pretend she'd never even received it.

In the end, she sighed and pressed the button again. "I'll be down in a moment, not dressed."

She'd already started towards her bedroom for her dressing gown when the man on the other end piped up again. "Don't trouble yourself, Miss." He said. "I can take it up to you, it's a small parcel. And, the wife is always on my about exercise, you know."

She went back and buzzed the man in, wondering what superb qualities he possessed that could make a woman bind herself to that voice. "Come on up, then. Be careful on the third step from the top, it gives sometimes."

The other end of the line was only static. She waited at the door for only a moment, foregoing the dressing gown if she wasn't going into the cold. She wore blue cotton sleep-shorts and a gray t-shirt with a cartoon duck featured at the centre of her chest, nothing that revealed more than her legs.

Less than half a minute after she'd warned the postman, she distinctly heard a knock, thud, and curse exclaimed loudly from the corridor. She unlatched the door and hurried for the stair, apparently to aid Mr Holmes, in lieu of the postman.

He'd already set himself to rights by the time she made it to him, however, and rather than explaining himself, he strode directly past her, uninvited, into her flat.

"Mr Holmes," she said reproachfully, though the way she followed behind him made it hard to feel very tough. "Mind telling me why you lied? You might've just said you were here."

"You might not have let me up," he said, and as he took off his coat, he peered around the flat with those keen eyes.

"Do people often bar you access into their homes?" she teased, and to her great amusement he looked vastly uncomfortable.

"I was only skipping over the possibility." He replied. "As it is, I came here for a reason and you are yet again succeeding in wasting my time."

" _You're wasting my time,"_ she mocked, dropping her voice to the lowest register she could manage and puffing out her chest. "I think that should be coined as your catchphrase." She laughed at him, but an almost affectionate quality to her smile made it impossible to be offended. The word 'maternal' arched over her head, but still he glared down his nose at her, electing to _appear_ offended. "Your self-importance is astounding, and yet you're self-conscious enough to believe I would leave you out there in the chill."

Being far from capable of responding to _that_ , Sherlock only relaxed his expression and said, "Have you been keeping up with the case?"

"There isn't much to read about that I don't already know." She answered, and walked past him into the kitchen, her instincts of hospitality propelling her to put a kettle on. "I knew you wouldn't find him right away, but I did think you'd have gotten him by now."

Sherlock gave a half-smile at that as he watched her turn the knob on her stove, the flames springing up under the burner and licking the steel bottom of the yellow kettle.

"Lestrade had his round-up of students who knew Carlton well from the school she attended, and none of them had any idea about what happened to her, no knowledge of Ervin at all, which isn't surprising. Ervin never went back to his home, but I had a nice look round the place. I can tell you where he has his teeth whitened, and how often he takes out his boat, but as to where he is now… I have no idea."

"I assume the Carltons have been informed about Ervin." Said Louisa, picturing the pain the news must have caused… After all her arguing, Dijana Carlton would still have to wait even longer before Kaleigh's body could be examined properly again.

"I'm sure they have," Sherlock sniffed, and Louisa didn't miss the bitterness in his voice.

"You should feel gratified," she smiled. "I read a bit about the mother's case against you. It was a flimsy one, but it's got to be nice, to be proven right."

Holmes let on to nothing, but she could sense his satisfaction.

"So then, you know you're going to have to speak with Anna Kruz again, I suppose." Louisa continued. "I heard what you told Lestrade the other night, and you're right; she definitely knows something."

"Well – yes, _I_ know that," Holmes said, nonplussed. "Why do _you_ know that?"

"Maggie is Anna's sister, and a good friend of mine. She told me Anna's been sick with guilt." Louisa answered. "She said much more about it, but in a nutshell, that's when I really started believing Kaleigh had been murdered."

"No one is that guilt-ridden unless they played a substantial part." Holmes muttered, agreeing with her logic.

"Or, rather, unless they failed to take preventative action." Louisa clarified. "Classic human instinct towards tragedy, but it should work in your favour, if you play your cards right. She'll want to redeem herself." As the kettle began to rattle with boiling water, a minute or so from whistling, Holmes took the middle stool at her counter.

"Then you must already know why I'm here."

"Perfectly transparent, if the way you lied your way through my front door is any indication." He gave her the sort of look which said, _go on. "_ You need me to arrange a meeting with Anna. I can infer that you've already been to see her, but she refused to see you – although that could happen to you a lot, all things considered-" his expression soured but still she plowed on. "So, instead of waiting for Lestrade to bring her in, like a normal person would have done, you came here to ask for my help. Are you satisfied?"

"Partially." The barest hint of a smirk fluttered across Sherlock's lips. Then, the detective shifted almost imperceptibly, alertness cutting through his eyes as they locked onto the door, at which someone rapped twice.

"Relax, that'll be Mr Keane." Louisa said in amused exasperation. She was at the door in a moment.

"Landlord?"

"Building manager." She unlatched the door and opened it wide, revealing a slightly stooped old man wearing a knitted jumper and a pair of rust coloured trousers. Though his face was almost unbelievably wrinkled, the eyes underneath those droopy lids were clear and laughing.

"Having a good one, Louisa?" the old man asked, in an Irish accent that was thicker than Louisa's. The freshness of his tone made it clear to Sherlock that Mr Keane had probably never known the joy of a proper smoke. "I've come for the laundry."

"I haven't got any." She told him. "I had to wash my curtains, so I took everything to the launderette yesterday. But thank-you."

"Never a problem, my dear. Come down later if you're for fish. I'm making a nice trout for dinner."

"If I'm free, I'll be there." They said their goodbyes, and with that, Keane was gone.

"Now _that's_ a landlord," Holmes announced, the moment the door was closed.

"Building manager," Louisa repeated, but Holmes was too busy thinking of how Mrs Hudson would howl at the prospect of doing his washing. "The only units in the building are near his own kitchen, so he does me the favour of putting my things through. I think he likes the extra work. He keeps a vegetable garden in the back during the summer, you know."

"How nice," Holmes said distractedly, as he watched Louisa lift the whistling kettle from the burner. She went to the cupboard and took out a plain blue teacup. "So will you do it?"

"Yes, when?" She opened the next cupboard and pulled down a box of Earl Grey, remembering that Holmes had once said he preferred it.

"Right now."

"I have to work." She said, and immediately broke into a chuckle at the flashflood of annoyance on his face. "I'm joking, Sherlock, obviously."

"Would you _please,_ " he sighed deeply. "Pick a name and stick with it?"

"I… don't follow."

He tilted his head. "You keep changing between my given name and my surname. I dislike inconsistency." She came over with his tea and set it before him. He picked the cup out of its saucer and began to blow on the liquid within. "So, pick a name, and stick with it."

"I've only slipped the once," she defended. "It's hardly my fault you notice any variation in anything."

"Thrice," he said flatly. "You've slipped thrice. My point is valid either way, however."

"You know that I cannot take you seriously when you use that word, Sherlock." She said, and when he looked up at her from his tea she turned her eyes away from her in a shy sort of fashion, her lips pressed into a smile.

"That answers that, I suppose." His brow quirked, and she turned her back to him, rolling her eyes as she took the kettle from the counter and poured the leftover water into the sink.

"I'll call Maggie, then, have her bring Anna to the Red Light." She said. "We can meet them there."

"Oh, has someone invited you along?" His confusion was clearly sarcastic.

"If you plan to interrogate the sister of my friend, you might as well call that an invitation." Louisa reasoned, and she picked her mobile up from the counter near Holmes' elbow. "Besides, Maggie will probably want me there as a buffer to your arrogant priggishness, especially considering you've already made her cry once."

"I saw no tears!" Sherlock blurted loudly.

" _I_ saw them, Sherlock," she countered, sharply enough to take him aback. "I found her behind a box of saltines, as lachrymose as you can imagine. Would you call me a liar?"

Sherlock threw her a look that would dry the spit of a grown man, but Louisa only shook her head at him and dialed Maggie's number. Before she could begin the call, however, she glanced back at the detective wearily.

"If you're even half as sensible as I think you are, you'll bear in mind that these are two teenage girls you're dealing with." She said sternly. "They aren't your waitresses, you need them. Before I make this call, I want you to promise to practice a little… decency."

"I certainly will _not."_

"Seriously?"

"You'll have to trust me."

She kept silent and maintained eye contact with him, employing the same method of control she'd used on countless toddlers during her babysitting days. Finally, he grew visibly agitated.

" _Fine_ ," he squeezed the word out from between clenched teeth. Then he inhaled softly for a long moment before managing, "I promise. Though I should inform you that I plan to snoop through your things while you're on that call."

"I'll kick you out before I let that happen." She vowed.

"' _Any drawer or door that can be opened in my flat is fair game for anyone to shift through.'"_ Sherlock trilled in a phony Irish accent that even Louisa had to internally admit was quite good. He returned to his normal voice to say, "At least I'm warning you about it, which is more than you did for me."

 _That was before I knew what you can do_ , she wanted to say, but she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut. She would definitely have hated herself if she'd given him that satisfaction.

An idea occurred to her then… not much of a way out, but it would at least save her from the knowledge that this man had been through her pants drawer.

"I'll go along peacefully, but you have to do two things first," he looked prepared to ignore her. "Make a move and I'll scream."

"You're wasting time."

"Better listen to me now, then, rather than getting the police called on yourself."

"You've got a penchant for drama." He drawled, but he was still seated.

"Firstly, you aren't allowed to speak about what you see."

"Then how will you know how smart I am?" he shot back sardonically. "I won't say a thing. I only want a look."

And really, Sherlock meant it; Louisa Daly was a walking enigma to him, at once sweet and irksome, naïve and bright, childish and impossibly adult for her twenty years. He could read her _character_ easily enough, but reading _her_ was an entirely separate issue. At certain times, when he expected to provoke she only laughed, and though her persona was warm he picked up distinct notes of introversion. He thought he knew most general facts about her, but it was hard to tell as there was such ambiguity in her manner, in all things she said. He might have searched her up online, but that wouldn't have been authentic. And, the most strange aspect of all was that, despite his long-winded explanations of his deductions being his favourite form of entertainment, he didn't feel any sort of need to show off to her… _that_ was something new, something different.

"What's the second thing?" he asked.

"Look into the sitting room and tell me if you see my keys in that little bowl on the coffee table."

He craned his neck over his shoulder and said, "they are… why-" and as he turned back to face her she was gone. A blur scuttled by in his peripheral and he whirled around completely, watching with a baffled expression as Louisa skipped to the coffee table and swept the keys up into her hand, like an owl plucking a field mouse from the ground with its talons. She went for the passage, and he then understood what she was doing.

He went after her, of course, but it was too late; by the time he came up behind her she had already reached around her door at the end of the way, locking the knob. She snapped it shut just in time, and then she turned to face him, pressing her back against the door. She held the keys firmly out of his reach behind her back, and her eyes shown with a triumph that grated severely against his nerves.

"You've got to be kidding," he said, trying to squeeze the less-than-dignifying irritation from his tone.

"Yeah, this is a joke," she countered breathlessly.

"You went through my bedroom," he reminded her angrily.

"You lacked the sense to lock your door before I could get to it."

"Pardon the fact I didn't know you were the prying type." He was close enough to her that she had to look up at him. She wondered if he was just immature enough to try and wrest the keys from her.

"Well _I_ had the sense not to go and warn you about it, didn't I?" she grinned, showing that dimple in her left cheek. "Besides, isn't it your job to know these sorts of things about people?"

He looked rather as though she'd slapped him.

"Oh, you should see your _face_ ," she moved past him, still holding the keys so that he would have had to take them from her forcibly. "I outsmarted you, accept it. It might even prove to be good for you."

He stood alone for a moment, surprised at how strong the feeling of being cheated was, and he didn't move until he heard Louisa's hello from the kitchen, the beginning of her conversation with the older Kruz girl, he assumed.

Sherlock huffed a sigh and settled for a quick turn about the sitting room, which was decorated in a soft feminine style, though none that he'd seen before. There was a crocheted afghan folded over the back of her sofa, which he assumed was a gift from some classic grandmother until a look inside the bottom drawer of her armoire led him to a box of crochet hooks arranged in order of gauge. In the same drawer were a few tins of spare buttons and spools of thread in a variety of colours. The armoire itself was carved and worked elegantly out of varnished acacia.

He only half-listened to Louisa's end of the phone call with Kruz, confident she would handle it.

"Yes, I know I said that, but you _have_ to see him again. Anna will need you there." He heard, as he worked through the next drawer of the armoire.

There he found two separate roll-outs of art brushes, one targeted to watercolours, the other to oil paints; a stack of washed palletes; and lastly a few books of thick watercolour paper. The state of the paintbrushes told him that they were new, purchased after her move here to London, and, if he wasn't mistaken, the brand could be purchased at the crafts shop down Northumberland Street. Any portfolio she kept of her work must have been locked in her bedroom, a fact which both frustrated him and told him, once and for all, that she was _not_ an art student; otherwise she wouldn't be so inclined to put away her work where fewer people could stumble upon it.

"I'm not saying your sister had anything to do with it," Louisa said, absently watching as Sherlock rifled through her things, only occasionally pausing to examine whatever his hands seized upon; everything else he only cast aside until he reached the end of the top drawer, and then he put everything back as he had found it, which Louisa actually appreciated. She'd partially expected him to fling everything into a pile over his shoulder and leave it there, but the care with which he restored the drawer made it clear that he'd snooped before, and had probably never been caught. "If she's at all like you I couldn't imagine her responsible. But, I have this feeling that she knows something."

"We _know_ she knows something." Sherlock called, finding something to say after all.

Louisa shot him a thats-not-helping sort of look and he smirked as he moved to the cabinet of the armoire.

He pulled them open eagerly, and then his face promptly fell. All that the cabinet offered were two easels, folded and stored on the first shelf, and a few more afghans rolled up side by side on the bottom.

He slid one of the easels halfway off the shelf, just enough to get part of it in the light. The chips at the cross-sections of wood, the wear of the hinges which allowed the contraption to fold, and the various sorts of dried paint told him that these, at least, were well-used. Probably a few years old, maybe more.

So, had the decision to leave been hasty? It would fit with what he saw; she left a great deal of things behind, except for things that would have been more expensive to replace than to ship. He moved to the sofa. New. The armchair, new. Not expensive, but not the bottom of the barrel, patchwork-upholstery type, either. But, the armoire was old, cared for, loved… banged in places that suggested a long journey in a crate.

There was a bookshelf against the wall next to the opening of the passage, and the way the shelves were cramped, titles packed together so tightly she must've had to pry whichever one she wished to read from between its brothers. There were even books squeezed on top of the rows on the shelves. He tested his theory and proved himself right with a copy of Steinbeck's _East of Eden_ lodged on the second shelf. He was forced to plant his left hand against the surrounding books as he pulled gently on the spine, to keep them all from spilling out. Old, very old. Many of them had obviously been kept a long time, so had she had them shipped over as well? He flipped open the cover of the book and found her name scrawled with maroon crayon on the first page, above the copyright. She was young when she was given this book (too old to have been purchased new, so it must have been a gift). And, these used books were important enough to her to make up for the cost of having them shipped.

She was a writer.

His eyes were so alight that even Louisa noticed from the kitchen.

"Please, Maggie," she said, trying to ignore the glare of Sherlock's microscopic lens. "You said yourself Anna's been under since Kaleigh was killed. Maybe _this_ is why, and if that's the case the only thing that will help her is clearing her conscience."

"I can't promise she'll come," Maggie replied. "And if she refuses I won't push her."

"Just do what you can. Either way she'll be called in for questioning, but it really would be better if she would talk to Mr Holmes directly."

"I know, I'll try. Tell me again how you found the man? I don't really get it."

As Louisa explained the Yearbook Rabbit Hole to Maggie, her eyes followed Sherlock, who dawdled over to the mantelpiece near the door.

He leaned in to look at the photographs, knowing they would be a well of information. Even the sparse number of photos in her flat altogether – being limited to the three on her mantel – supported the narrative he'd begun construction for Louisa. The three he found were stuck into frames that were newly purchased.

One featured a young Louisa, probably eight, definitely younger than ten as indicated by the softness of her cheeks, the length of her torso compared to her legs. She posed against a birdbath with an orange ascot tied round her neck. Beside her, kneeling to pick up a toy spyglass was (Sherlock readily assumed) her brother, gangly enough to be in the beginning years of post-adolescence. Beyond them, wearing a summer dress and shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked on was a woman who had to be her mother. She had the same soft curls as Louisa, though hers were a bright mahogany where Louisa's were darker, and the same delicately rounded jaw.

The second photograph featured the brother again, this time a young adult, standing in front of a dormitory with his father. The man had his arm around the boy's shoulders, but they resembled each other very little. In fact, Sherlock only knew the man was the father because of the incredibly strong resemblance Louisa held with him. She wasn't in the photograph, but he recognised the dimpled smile, the dark chestnut of his hair, and the intelligent, striking eyes, close-set and prominent.

It was telling enough that Louisa was nowhere to be seen in the photograph, as the setting seemed to depict the drop-off day at the college to which the dormitory belonged. He supposed she might have been the one who took the photo, but if it was an image important enough to sit in open view in her flat, he knew she would have been in the photo if she'd had the chance. The mother also wasn't in the photo, though the day was the sort that the whole family typically liked to accompany for, so where were the women? Had the mother died? Or was she sick at home, Louisa taking care of her?

He shook his head and moved on to the third photo. The brother appeared to be the star of the show, popping up in this final depiction, alone this time.

The picture had been clipped from some kind of law journal or magazine, as there was a caption below it: _Quinlan Daly, Caelton & Co.'s official Partner of the New Year. _

The young man had obviously also inherited his mother's jawline, but it made him look weak, languid. His plump, boyish face contrasted oddly with his receding hairline. His eyes were hazed and watery, confirming and fine-tuning the deduction Sherlock had made the night Louisa came to his flat: the brother was the alcoholic in the family.

"Sherlock Holmes!" His head snapped up and around, features pulling into a startled expression.

" _What,_ " he bit out.

"Don't look at me like that, I've called you four times." She snapped in response, a black cloud hanging over her brow. "We're going, come on."

"I'm not finished here," said Sherlock adamantly, his mind already working to file away all the new, concrete facts he'd found about the girl in front of him.

"Yes, you are, if you want your interview. We'll be late if we don't leave now."

When he narrowed his eyes at her, she knew he could hear the lie; if she and Sherlock left the flat now, they'd be waiting at the Red Light for at least twenty minutes if Maggie's propensity for being late was to be counted on.

"You don't _want_ me to finish," he stated.

"I can't say the idea particularly thrills me," she admitted, though she did so grudgingly. And when he opened his mouth to retort she held up her hand. "I _know_ what I said but… you're different. The same rules don't apply to you."

"Different…"

"You know perfectly well what I mean," Louisa said, feeling vastly uncomfortable. "A normal person wouldn't look at my throw pillows and find an inferiority complex."

"What, have you got one of those?" he rolled his eyes. "If I don't finish now, I may never get to."

"You've done enough."

"I haven't," he insisted, and something in the way he said it made her hesitate. "Go get dressed. I'll keep on while you're gone."

She threw her hands up. Didn't anyone ever tell him no? "Okay! You've done this to yourself sir, I want you to remember that." She pointed a rigid finger towards the door. "Get out."

He snorted and blinked at her in a lazy way, so she walked across the sitting room, went behind him, and braced her hands against his back, shoving him away from the hearth and towards the door she'd pointed at.

She was stronger even than he'd thought. "Oh, come _on._ " He growled, and then stopped so hard that she collided against him. She stumbled back, a bit dazed as he twirled around to swipe his coat from the back of the navy blue armchair he'd left it on. He fastened it around him, glaring at her as she glared at him.

"Get _out_ , Sherlock." She repeated, gritting her teeth.

"I _am,_ Louisa." He sneered, and suddenly she almost wanted to laugh again. She knew it would only confused him, however, so instead she teased him.

"Miss Daly!" she called the reminder after him, watching the hem of his coat swish through the doorway.

She thought he wouldn't answer her, swathed as he was in the indignation of not getting his way, but as she heard his tread pounding down he stares he shouted, "Louisa!"

Now, she did laugh.

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_** I am so pleased to inform you that this is the penultimate installment of the first volume of _As the Starling Says._ The next chapter will close this initial piece and leave the ground open for the next, and I sincerely hope that those of you who enjoyed this story will continue on with it, and with me.

Also, within the next few days I'll be going through my chapters and editing them for spelling errors or continuity mistakes. Just in case anyone wonders why I'm updating without any new chapters.

Yours,

Emily


	7. For Courage, Eat Tapas

**As The Starling Says** **Volume One**

 **Chapter Six**

* * *

Louisa dressed warmly for the weather in a navy blue dress with a peter-pan collar and long sleeves. The cuffs were a bit wide, but that was easily rectified by flipping them back once. With the wind promising to bite, she wore a pair of cream coloured stockings underneath it which matched the colour of the cuffs and collar, as per her (perhaps overly-strict) personal dress code. Over it all she buttoned her coat, and as she ran out the door to join Holmes downstairs she stepped hastily into a pair of black leather penny loafers.

He was waiting in a black taxi pulled up to the kerb, the sight of the car quite unwelcome to Louisa. She'd so far been in a handful of cars since she'd moved to the city, always preferring to go on foot, but in this case, the less amount of time they spent on the journey, the more time they would be forced to wait at the Red Light for Maggie's arrival with Anna. Of course, Louisa ducked into the car without a word, deciding to save her energy for the impeding petulance and impatience she was bound to experience from the detective. She buckled the strap round her waist, thoughts percolating with ways to distract him once they reached the restaurant.

Sherlock glanced at her for once moment, hesitating before looking away again and still looking more than a little miffed, but otherwise they passed the majority of the ride in mutual silence, ignoring each other peacefully once the driver had been informed of where they meant to go.

Sherlock, for his part, mulled over the case in his mind, attempting to nail down the questions he would ask. Kruz knowing _nothing_ was an impossibility, but still there was no telling how _much_ she knew, or whether she would even divulge any of it to him… he found that, most often; witnesses and relations had no real interest in being helpful, or useful, or cooperative or interesting in any way. Worse yet, a fat lot of them simply could not be prevailed upon to utilise the proper organ and remember what should have been remembered by anyone with a decimal percentage of his own ample wits…

Long-winded, mental rants aside, having Louisa along had always been his plan. He needed her; she had influence over Anna's sister, who in turn had influence over Anna; Daly might, at the very least, soften any resolution Anna might have to withhold information.

The day before, around this time, Sherlock had leant back in the chair at his desk at home, staring at photographs taken of Kaleigh Carlton's bedroom. They weren't taken by him, of course; he would never have been looking at pictures if they'd let him have a look at the real thing, but _Dijana Carlton_ (that woman whose name would forever be thought of with sneering emphasis) expressed some not-so-subtle concerns to Lestrade about meeting with Sherlock again. So, the DI had taken a camera with him; and shown up at Baker Street a little over an hour later with a paper bag of newly developed pictures, all of which catalogued every inch of Carlton's bedroom.

The first things Sherlock noticed were the touches of Anna Kruz, which were all over the girl's room – photos stuck in the wood of her mirror, a collage made in the corner of the wall over her desk, depicting a day in the city, captured stream-of-conscience style featuring both girls in all the zany glory of ditsy, teenage youth. The wardrobe was as packed with clothing as Daly's bookcase was with titles, mostly dresses and blouses, only a small section on the edge dedicated to her school uniforms. The style of the bedroom itself was as elegant as it could be when left to the designing whims of a sixteen year old girl, and Carlton had fallen into the cliché of a completely pink colour scheme. The shoes she kept ranged between patent pumps - which wouldn't have been out-of-place in a courtroom - to strappy heels.

All of this together told Sherlock of Kaleigh's superficiality, her girlishness and naiveté, but Kruz was the essence he focused on most. She was _everywhere_ – not only the collage on the wall, but the pullover he recognised as Anna's _from_ that collage, shown in Lestrade's photograph as hooked over a crown-topped coat rack by the door; he hadn't been through Anna's bedroom, hadn't seen any of her personal possessions, but he knew that evidence of Kaleigh would be as commonplace as the reverse seemed to be. Then, there was the guilt Daly mentioned…

Holmes moved with the suddenness of one who'd just remembered something moderately important and withdrew his mobile from the pocket of his coat.

"Call Watson for me." He told her, and when she raised her eyebrows at him in silent questioning he supplied, "Tell him I need my blogger."

He gave her the passcode to unlock the screen, and in less than a minute he could hear the faint sounds of John picking up on the other end. "Sherlock, where are you?"

"Actually, this is Louisa Daly."

"Oh, hello." John responded awkwardly. "I'm assuming Sherlock is with you."

"Yes, he's right next to me." Louisa glanced at him sideways, but all she could see of his face was the profile. He seemed focused on the headrest of the driver's seat. "Apparently he's not got the faculties to phone you himself."

"Yeah, he does that a lot. I used to think he didn't know any better, but I've come to accept he simply views everyone as his personal assistant."

"I can see where you'd get that." She said, and the two shared a chortle, sounding remarkably like two misbehaving schoolboys in the middle of a lesson.

Louisa started a little when Sherlock's eyes slid over to look at her, landing on hers with a _thunk_. His mouth was taut with disapproval, and his nostrils flared subtly. "Oh, I think he heard you." She whispered to the receiver.

"Red Light," Sherlock said pointedly.

"Right… I dialed you because Sherlock asks that you meet us at the Red Light as soon as you can." Louisa explained, back to her act of Exemplary Student; Sherlock went back to his musing, evidently satisfied.

"I can be there in half an hour." John replied. "I have to finish up here, but the office isn't too far away from you."

"Okay, thank you." She said, hanging up. She passed the message along to Sherlock, who gave no indication that he had heard it and Louisa sank back into her previous position, feeling reprimanded.

The taxi turned onto Rose Street, tyres rolling smoothly. Louisa shifted a little to her right, casting her gaze out the window and watching the power lines run by over her head. While Sherlock thought about bedrooms, shoes, and Ervin's boat, she'd fallen into recollecting something the detective had said earlier. Something that had resonated more strongly than it should have…

 _"If I don't finish now, I'll never get to."_

He'd said it so argumentatively, though with an air of forced calm, and it was easy enough to guess that Sherlock simply hated to be cut off in the middle of whatever he wanted to do; she wasn't thrown by it because she didn't understand it, but because she'd realised at that moment how separate the life she led was from that of Holmes or Doctor Watson.

After this case with Kaleigh Carlton was resolved, that would be it. She might see Sherlock again, if he chose to continue his occasional visits to the Red Light, but she wouldn't ever be involved with him again. That is, unless another one of her friend's sibling's friends was murdered again, and what were the chances of that?

Louisa _definitely_ wouldn't see Watson again, wouldn't be able to watch the _fascinating_ interactions which unfolded between the doctor and the detective. And, that made her realise that she actually really did want to; not only were Watson and Holmes – as a duo – a treasure trove of writers' fantasies come to life – actual, perfect foils placed in the real, gritty world of the London crime-scene – not only were they just so incredibly _awesome_ – but Sherlock, tangible literary device that he was, had unwittingly shown her a part of life that her subconscious had craved to see.

Yet, it was only a glimpse if Watson's wild tales on the internet could be believed.

Whenever Sherlock was around, intrigue nipped at his heels like an insistent pet after attention, loving him as dearly as he loved it; the only thing he lacked was a cape, and some would say his Belstaff made an outstanding substitute. His world was a place worth learning from. Now that she could look back to the place where all the contents of that little box packed, way, away in her heard had been thoroughly scoured, Louisa discovered that she'd been relieved when her suspicions were confirmed, and no arrest had yet to be made of Iskandar Ervin, because that meant that perhaps it wasn't over.

Eventually her involvement _would_ come to an end – most likely by the close of this meeting with the Kruz sisters. But, if she got nothing else out of it, Louisa rationlised, it could at least be good fodder for writing.

"Are you coming or not?" Sherlock said, and when Louisa came out of her thoughts she found that they had finally pulled up to the Red Light. Or, they had been there for a while, as Sherlock's annoyed expression seemed to convey.

"Yeah, wouldn't miss it," she muttered as she gathered her coat snugly around her neck, and the wan sort of smile she gave was noted by Sherlock, who followed her into the restaurant after paying the cabbie.

Inside the servers were as busy as they were every Sunday; that is to say, each and every one of them were darting around the packed dining room, some carrying trays of food, others chatting hurriedly with their guests in the quest for higher tips, and all of them toting identical harassed expressions, which seemed to say they'd give up a semi-vital organ to slow time down for a small stretch. The Greenhouse remained the only hall closed from service, now that the brunch hour was dying.

She looked over her shoulder to Sherlock, who blinked round the room, dazed by all the chaos.

"I thought this place was quiet," he said.

"It usually is, but ya know… Sundays come with crepes." She shrugged helplessly, nodding her chin towards her favourite section. "Come on, it'll be better in here."

He trailed behind her, attempting to focus as he had during the cab ride.

"This environment is _not_ conducive to critical thinking," he complained vehemently, and Louisa ignored him as she slid into the centre booth lined up against the half-wall so she could keep an eye out for Maggie through the arch. He heaved himself across from her, quite dramatically. "We should have just had her delivered to your flat."

"This is neutral ground, Sherlock. Besides, it might help her tap into the mindset she'd had on the thirty-first. She'll remember things more clearly, and while the added emotion might muck up the process, if you can navigate it correctly it'll come out in our favour." Louisa reasoned, and to send the point home she concluded with, "it isn't as if my flat is a brain-den either, with you scrutinising my throw pillows."

He quirked a brow in a way that said (shockingly) he could allow the validity of her statements. Still, he couldn't seem to stop from throwing out, "The only thing your throw pillows tell me is that you're the sort of woman who goes through the superfluous effort of buying them."

" _You_ have throw pillows…" she reminded him.

"Gift from Mummy."

 _Mummy!?_ Was he serious? Perhaps only the shock of hearing him use a word so close to a term of endearment (without a single _shred_ of irony on his face) could render Louisa thoughtless enough to say, "What _did_ you look at, then?" But, the thoughtlessness was exterminated immediately, and she looked positively horrified with herself. She gestured emphatically with her hands, looking like a referee calling the foul. "No, _no_ , never mind. I don't want to know."

"You do want to know." He smiled at her with antagonistic certainty. "Which is how I know you'll ask again. Though, I suspect it'll take another half-dozen inquiries before you actually let me tell you."

"Just keep ignoring it," Louisa said. "I'll only ask in moments of absolute madness."

She checked her watch, resisting the urge to phone Maggie and find out how much longer she would be. It was possible that Anna required more convincing than Louisa had anticipated, and she was wary to add more pressure to what was already there. She gazed at Sherlock, noticing how his eyes had glazed over once again in the single space of twenty seconds since they'd sat down.

"Don't do that, please." She sighed.

"Sorry?" She was surpised he actually answered, but she could tell the greater part of him was still traipsing away in whatever kind of dimension he'd created in that great block of a head.

"Don't melt away, not now. I'm too nervous to be left alone, and I'm sitting right across from you."

"Really not my problem." He mumbled, and she nudged his foot under the table with the toe of her left penny loafer. He sucked in a deep breath and threw it out as though aiming to shoot a croquet ball across the room with his mouth. "Why is it everyone tries to distract me when I'm _thinking_?"

"I'm not trying to distract you, I'm politely suggesting that you simply think aloud." She responded calmly.

"I wouldn't know where to begin," he lied.

She lost no time in supplying, "Start with the scratch on Kaleigh's neck," she leant in and propped her chin on her fist. "Start with the tear in the upholstery, how you found the ring when Lestrade's team didn't. Answer all the questions I've asked and you've just skipped over."

"The tear in the upholstery came from Carlton's right heel, the scratch from Ervin's left hand."

"Yes, I gleaned as much, thank-you." She shook her head. "I want to know how you could tell. Start from the beginning."

"I went to the scene as a favour to Mrs. Hudson – you've met – Kaleigh's grandmother is a friend of hers. When she heard the news, naturally she came to me, before either party was privy to the conjecture the police provided: that the crash had been the result of inebriated driving." He spoke as methodically as always, but, knowing him better, Louisa could detect an aspect of pride touching on the boredom. "I went, and I looked, and I saw. I knew right away that the tear you mentioned was out of place; despite the fascia having split and concaved on that side, the area of the exposed seat that had been torn was free of anything that could have caused a rip going in a forward direction, pointed slightly to the left. I had to feel blindly on the floorboard through a gap between the destroyed fascia and the seat, but I found a broken heel that had all but rolled into the floor of the backseat. That alone told me that Carlton had been on the passenger side at the start of her journey, and the scratch on her neck supported this succession of events.

"At the time, of course, there was no way for me to thoroughly examine the body, so there was no DNA proof that the scratch was from human fingers, but the way it was drawn so shallowly over her skin, as though someone had swiped-" he made his hand into a claw and reached around his own head to mime scratching the other side of his neck. "Just so: as if someone had grabbed her by the head and shoulders to pull her over, their hand slipped, and, they scratched her." He shrugged quickly. "Simple as that. One can pick up on the hallmarks of wounds, slight or fatal, to pin-point from where and what they came. A shallow scratch from an untrimmed fingernail would cause a wide, dull wound, the first layer of epidermis rolled and loose. This one was the same. It wasn't deep enough to make her bleed, which paints the picture that Ervin wanted to be careful with his DNA."

"You said there wasn't a trace of him in the car." Louisa knew she was interrupting, but Holmes seemed not to have noticed as he replied in the affirmative.

"Why do you ask?"

"Well…" she began, and if Sherlock had not been able to see that she was thinking, he might have prodded her along. "The crime in and of itself seems like a far-cry from premeditation. But Ervin was _incredibly_ cautious. I mean, he picked her up with her own car, which suggests a certain level of trust between them. Two hours later she's dead, he's nowhere to be seen, and if _you_ couldn't find any sign from him, he must've been careful from the start of the ride. I suppose it could all just fit in with the profile of a man doing something he shouldn't have been, in a vaguely Antoinesque fashion, but it could also mean that wherever they'd gone before they started the trip was where he decided to kill her."

"Well, yes-"

She hushed him by waving an impatient finger and stammering. "I'm not finished, Sherlock. I know you've got all the bloody answers but just give me a moment, yes?" He closed his mouth with a sour expression. "So, then, wherever they went before the trip must have been relatively close to Northumberland Street – and they _must_ have gone somewhere unless he bought a case of beer from the corner shop and got her all langered in the backseat, which doesn't seem like Ervin's style. If we could narrow down the possibilities we could ask round – well, no, you'll have already done that, correct?"

He nodded, but before he could speak she went on. "Well if Ervin was secretive then so was Kaleigh. I would be shocked if she was telling her parents the truth about heading to Northampton, _but_ , the A1 _does_ lead to Northampton, and they were on it. Is that what you were hoping Anna will tell you – where they were meant to be going?"

Holmes remained silent for a long time, and Louisa realised with some humour that he was waiting to make sure she'd exhausted herself.

"Yes, that's part of what I wish to learn." Was the succinct rejoinder he chose, which made the moment seem comically anticlimactic.

She sat back and fell to regarding him so openly that he was moved to hiss, " _What?"_

"You knew Kaleigh was murdered."

"Obviously."

"I know how you figured it out, but… I mean, _how?_ It was so easy for you."

"It just happens. You have to visualise it…" he glanced at her, debating. "Close your eyes," he commanded, hands gesticulating as he closed his own. "You have to see it as if you were there, a fly on the wall, or as Kaleigh Carlton herself. You're sixteen, riding along in the car your mother bought you with a man you think you can trust. Something happens and the car stops. He grabs at you and of course, you fight back. You punch and thrash without any real aim, and he takes your hair, grabs your shoulders, pulling at you as he gets out of the car himself."

Louisa opened her eyes to watch him speaking animatedly with his hands.

"Perhaps he loses his grip, his hand slips, and he scratches you on the neck. Then he stops once he realises he's broken skin; he adjusts his grip and slowly he starts to get you up, and as your legs flail beneath you, real panic sets in. So you kick out, once, _hard_ hoping to ram him backwards, make him lose his balance so that you might crawl over him and make a run for it.

"But he braces against you, and your right foot catches against the seat, digging your heel into the leather with the added strength of adrenaline, and off it snaps, ruining your shoe and leaving evidence." He opened his eyes and fixed them on her. "Can you see it?"

"Yes. But _you_ truly saw all that from a glance at the passenger seat?"

"No, no, not at all," Holmes snorted. "No, _that_ would be too easy. It always starts as a tiny alarm, for lack of a better word. Something about the tear triggered my brain into producing shadows; it _told_ me to look closer at it, and when I did I saw it for what it was. From there I simply looked for things I knew would make the shadows clearer."

Louisa nodded, suspecting that this was as clear an explanation Holmes was equipped to give of his ability, and in a strange way, she could appreciate the ease with which he told her. There was very little obstruction in his mood today, apparently, which contrasted against the mind-set she was typically made to battle against any time she wanted conversation from him. She wished now that she'd thought to bring her notebook. _This_ was the perfect example of what she should take notes on, not some reiterated definition scrawled on a whiteboard.

"So," she moved on. "Ervin put her into the driver's seat and then, what? He wasn't armed, so he probably didn't threaten her into driving. Did he knock her out?"

"Yes."

"But that seems so chancey. Too desperate to have worked so well."

"He put her foot on the accelerator and controlled the wheel until he was as close to the overpass as he could get. Then he simply rolled from the car. Being on the passenger side allowed him to roll into the ground following the carriageway. There's a strip of forest along the road he likely stumbled into, a sort of long copse. Chancey, yes, but possible. Somehow, no one saw, and if they did they clearly could not have cared less."

She nodded once more, and lapsed into a silence. He noticed that she wore the opal earrings again, and another watch. It was a Baume Mercier, with leafy hands of dauphime over a Mother of Pearl face. He counted eight diamonds, judged the movement to be quartz, the stone to be domed sapphire, and knew the watch had been purchased for no less than… 4,2500 pounds, give or take. It was well cared for, regularly polished, but still the watch lacked the lustre which fades from steel after the first initial years of being worn. He knew it had been a gift, most likely from her father.

"Aren't you going to ask about the ring again?" he said.

"If you didn't find the thing in her car, then I don't have to ask; I already know."

"Alright then, you tell me."

She scoffed. "D'you really need me to explain it for you?"

He flashed a smile, littered with irony. What was it Moriarty had said once?

 _I want you to prove that you know it…_

There was no plainer way to put it, such a straightforward command it was. But to echo _him_ verbally would have been… less than favourable. "I'm only checking."

Her eyes fluttered in annoyance, but she complied. "You clearly guessed that Ervin jumped from the car, as you described the ground he landed on, so you tracked the route of the car back – easy to do, I would imagine, there wouldn't have been a great distance between where Ervin jumped and the car crashed." She droned listlessly. "Just followed the side of the road, looking for signs of escape. You found the ring and, I'm sure, depressions in the grass, _whatever_ , that linked the ring to Ervin's leap from the vehicle. Really, I take this as an insult to my intelligence. It's not exactly a puzzle in the realm of particle physics."

Before he could reply there was a waitress coming through the archway behind them. She called Louisa's name, and Sherlock craned his neck to get a look at the uninvited newcomer.

"Afternoon, Lilly."

"What're you doing in here?" the woman asked. She had, Sherlock estimated, about ten years on Louisa, her hair styled into a pixie cut that was obviously more for convenience than it was for aesthetics. From the oily sheen of sweat on her forehead and the untucked tail of her shirt, from the overall haze in her eyes, he saw that Lilly had given herself ten minutes to prepare for work that morning, under the power of a hangover, and that this was a regular thing. The little effort she gave her appearance was reserved for the swipe of lime green shadow over each eye, applied by the little finger on her right hand.

Sherlock lost interest immediately, but the woman kept on with her talking. "There's no one to wait on you here. This section is closed."

"I know, we aren't here to eat." Louisa informed her. "We're waiting for Maggie."

"Oh, she's up at the front with her sister. If she'd told me it was you she's meetin' I'd have sent her back."

"It's not too late," Sherlock interjected meaningfully.

Lillian fixed her attention on Sherlock, but still addressed Louisa. "Who's this then, Lou?"

"Sherlock Holmes. He works with New Scotland Yard; he's investigating Kaleigh Carlton's accident."

"It was a murder." Holmes corrected languidly.

"Oh… Right… My condolences." Lilly offered, and Holmes snorted openly.

"Ignore him, Lillian. The boil on his inner thigh has festered again; it always makes him cross."

Holmes guffawed. He really did.

And as Lilly turned away slowly, uncertainly, Louisa began to chuckle herself. She'd expected seething offense, but this was admittedly better; she'd always loved to make someone laugh, it was a gratifying feeling. If she could make Sherlock Holmes laugh twice she ought to take her show on the road.

The humour simmered down quickly, however, and before she knew it Sherlock was actually sulky.

"It serves you right. Lillian is a nice woman."

"I didn't say a thing."

"First of all, you did," she reminded him. "And, even if you hadn't, your expression would have said it all. You made your little judgements and wrote her off the moment you saw her."

"You're lecturing me." He stated.

"If that's what you want to call it-"

"I _call_ it dull." He said, and she opened her mouth to retort a second before Maggie came into the Greenhouse, Anna lagging behind. Sherlock got to his feet so suddenly that the girl shrank away from him. Her eyes were visibly red from crying.

"Don't be afraid," Sherlock said, in a softened tone Louisa would not have imagined coming from him so naturally. "No reason to be, you're perfectly safe."

Louisa slid from her place in the booth, sure that Anna would feel better sitting next to her sister.

"Have a seat, if you like." She indicated her old spot, and as she slid into the booth Sherlock had occupied, she said, "Thanks to both of you for coming."

Maggie offered a half-hearted smile, but neither sister said anything as they took their seats. Sherlock shed down to his gunmetal hued button-up and slid next to Louisa, putting his coat and jacket in the empty space between them; she was certain from the way he peeked at her from the corner of his eye that he was actually creating a sort of boundary.

 _Major intimacy issues, but we already knew that, didn't we, Lou?_ She fought the urge to smile, knowing now was not the time nor place. _Don't have to be very clever to nail onto that one._

Once he was settled Sherlock glanced between the sisters, summing them up in turn.

Neither had slept for the past forty-eight hours at least, but only Anna had the traitorous red-rimmed eyes, so bloodshot that she resembled a cartoon tramp caricature. She hadn't brushed her hair before coming out, and the drop of blood – so small that it was (almost) hard to notice – which had dried on the sleeve of her shirt just beneath the crook of her elbow, hinted at the relapse of a self-harm issue she'd probably struggled with for some time. With empathy being practically a foreign concept to him, Sherlock only marveled at the horrendously stupid things people often did to punish themselves.

"Would anyone like a drink?" Louisa asked, secretly hoping they would decline; she dreaded the idea of asking Lillian or Paola to go out of their way to serve them, and she knew better than to try persuading Holmes into moving to an active section of the restaurant. The relief that came once both girls silently shook their heads was so strong that Louisa had to admit to the lingering apprehension, if she was fretting over something so inconsequential.

"Miss Kruz," Sherlock began. "I assume you know why I've asked for your time."

"You want to talk about Kaleigh." The girl sniffed and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her jumper. To his credit, Holmes really did try not to appear as appalled as he felt.

"Yes, exactly. From the beginning I knew your friend had been murdered, and only two days ago I learned that the man who did it is a PR rep by the name of Iskandar Ervin." He gave her a benign, but targeted look. "You're familiar with the name, I imagine."

"I knew him as Izzy." Anna said with extreme trepidation. "I never met him, not really. I learned about him through Kaleigh."

"Describe him for me," Sherlock requested, testing the waters.

"He's an older man, dresses well. He's… a little darker, perhaps middle-Eastern or thereabouts." Anna said. "I only saw him twice."

"Tell me about those times,"

"The first was round December of last year. He took Kaleigh to a Christmas party he was throwing and she snuck out of my window to meet him in the street... then this last Spring we were having a day about the town, we ended up at the London Eye, she got on her phone out of nowhere, and then she just… asked me to wait with her until Izzy came to pick her up, and when he texted that he was near she made me get out of sight. I hadn't even heard his name since she filled me in about that Christmas party, but that's always the way it happened; it was always out of nowhere. That day he took her to a nightclub." The more Anna spoke, the more her voice began to waver.

"You never exchanged words with him?"

"Never, sir."

"What do you know about him? Anything about his career, his residence? Was he married?"

"I only know that he's extravagant, and he has the sort of job that allows him to be so. I've no idea where he lives."

"How did Kaleigh meet him?"

"He used to take her on dates. Not very often, only four, maybe five nights in all the time she knew him, and they always stayed out together for a long time."

"Yes, but how did they meet?" Sherlock repeated, not unkindly, but still Anna began to stammer.

"No, I don't – I couldn't tell you, I… dunno how she met him."

"I think you do."

When Anna turned her face away, tears threatening to spill, Maggie put her arm over the girl's shoulder protectively. "She told you she doesn't know."

Louisa could see a muscle twitch in Sherlock's jaw – he probably disliked Maggie's interference, but he didn't press the matter further. Instead he asked, "How long had you and Miss Carlton known each other?"

"Since primary school."

"And you were close with her?"

"She's my best friend."

Sherlock nodded, lips pursed. "What was her opinion of Ervin?"

Anna hesitated, her expression one of someone trying to measure how much they could, or should reveal.

"She liked him well enough. The most she ever said of him was that he was agreeable." Anna told him. "And generous. She mentioned once that he would buy her whatever dress she wanted before going someplace nice, and he would always let her keep them."

Louisa's head perked up a little, and she looked over to Sherlock to see if he'd caught the same implication from Anna's words. If the nature of his next question was any indication, he had: "You said they went out at least four times together," he began. "You mentioned the party and the nightclub; do you remember anything else they did?"

"I remember something about a night on a boat, but that's it."

"Did Kaleigh never offer to introduce you to Ervin?" Sherlock asked, finally able to circle back. "Did she mention any friends of his who might have liked to meet you?"

"I don't remember," was the immediate reply, and with that Louisa could sense the agitation beginning to waft from Sherlock as he rapidly changed direction once again.

"Was Kaleigh a smart girl, Miss Kruz?"

"What?" Anna blinked at him and Louisa could sympathise; despite having only his profile to examine she could see that his eyes had taken on that penetrating quality which made it hard even for _her_ to think when she was its subject.

"Was Kaleigh intelligent?" he repeated slowly. "Would you say she possessed a fair shred of common sense?"

Louisa shot him a warning glance, thought she knew he wouldn't see it; the edge in his tone seemed to make her feel it was necessary.

"She's brilliant," Anna replied, puzzled.

"Was."

"Sorry?"

"Kaleigh _was_ brilliant," Sherlock elaborated, head tilted and eyes hard. "Miss Carlton is _dead_ , murdered by a man you appear to have no interest in bringing to justice… though why that is evades me, as you've assured me you never shared a conversation with him."

"I'm not protecting him, Mr Holmes," Anna replied, clearly offended by the inconspicuous accusation. "I'm protecting myself."

"Really, Mr Holmes, if you think bullying my sister is any way-" Maggie interrupted angrily, but Anna waved her down.

"It's fine, Mag, I'm okay." She said, glaring at Sherlock. "If I didn't _want_ to help you, I wouldn't have come."

Sherlock sucked in a breath to speak, looking so wound-up that Louisa felt obligated to reach under the table and clap her hand on his knee. His trousers even _felt_ posh.

He jerked violently and turned his head sharply to look down his shoulder at her, sucking in another breath as though prepared to round on Louisa now. He stalled when he saw the almost mad gleam in her eye, and for a small space of time she seemed to _grow_ , a band of darkness growing with her, which was a sensation quite akin to tunnel-vision; it popped an opening in his anger, and within seconds he'd completely deflated. The moment he closed his mouth the gleam melted from Louisa as though it had never been there. She patted the spot on his knee, withdrew her hand, and turned to Anna with nothing but tender sympathy visible over her face. It was a stunning reversal of manner that left him feeling a little befuddled.

She said the girl's name softly, drawing her attention. "I understand how difficult this is for you. It's plain how heartbroken you are, and Maggie's told me twice now you're grieving deeply… I believe you loved Kaleigh."

"I did love her," Anna's lower lip began to tremble so badly that she covered her face for a moment, trying to recover. From behind her hands she said, "She was my best friend. I'd kill him if I ever got the chance."

"Well, I also know you're terrified." Louisa went on, glad when Anna took her hands from her face, looking attentive enough. "You're scared to tell us what you know because you think you'll end up like Kaleigh, but I can tell you from a logical standpoint, that won't happen. You said yourself that Izzy never saw you, you never spoke to him, so why should he come looking for you?"

Louisa reached across the table to take one of Anna's hands, ignoring that her fingers were still slick with tears. "You can trust Mr Holmes. Whatever he may appear, he's a good man." She allowed Sherlock a wry smile and found with some discomfort that he was watching her intently. She kept herself from hesitating, aware that her progress with Anna was shaky, but also from an unwillingness to let Holmes _see_ her notice. "He won't use anything you tell us for any purpose other than finding Izzy, and from there your name will never be repeated. No one will blame you, either, if that's part of what worries you."

Anna's throat convulsed once, twice, silently confirming Louisa's words. So she went on, hoping to chip away the reservation as much as possible.

"Kaleigh needed help, yes, but she made her own choices. I know you loved her, but she put herself in that situation, and you must accept that. The only help you are capable of giving her now is to ensure the man who used and murdered her is made to answer for it."

Sherlock quirked a brow, his lips pursing; the romanticism of it all was too much for him, personally, but Louisa seemed adept enough to pull it off, and she made it work for her. Anna began to cry again, quick as a flash, but there was a steadying dimension to it, an edge that told him she was getting herself in gear.

Louisa caught his eye again, and she widened hers, stabbing her head repeatedly towards the crying girl across from him.

 _Show some tact, you arse_ , that vehement motion said.

"Oh, ahh…" he set to patting his chest hurriedly, forgetting that he'd taken off his coat. He snatched it from the booth and wriggled his fingers first in this pocket, then in that one… until he finally found a gray handkerchief, which he held out for Anna. She took it while Louisa looked on, satisfied and mildly entertained.

For the following minute Anna dabbed at her running eyes with the bit of cloth, giving the occasional sniffle, and Louisa could tell from the anxious expression pressing Sherlock's lips that he was desperately hoping the girl wouldn't blow her nose into it. Once again, the gravity of the situation was all that kept Louisa from laughing.

Sherlock's mouth gaped open to speak, but he choked on his own air as Louisa swatted him sharply over the knee. He threw her a venomous look, but the mad gleam had come back into her eyes and she pulled her face closer to his, muttering "ifyoublowthisSherlock I swear to _God…_ " It was difficult to hear her, she spoke so quietly, but the power of her threat made the words ring.

He ground his teeth and turned his glare to the ceiling, sighing through his nostrils.

Thankfully the sisters were too occupied to notice this silent battle of wills; Maggie draped her arm once again over Anna's shoulders, hand stroking through her hair as the soft sobs turned into tiny gasps of air. Then, finally, her breathing evened, and Anna lifted her head.

Her eyes were bleary, but she was visibly better, and before Sherlock could open that fat mouth again, Louisa spoke. "If there's anything you feel you absolutely cannot tell us, we'll understand. We need to know more about what happened the night Kaleigh died… Will you try?"

Anna nodded and Louisa turned to Sherlock, waiting. It took less than a heartbeat for him to jump in with both feet.

"On the night of the thirty-first you left this restaurant perhaps twenty minutes before Kaleigh was picked up, isn't that right?"

"Yes,"

"But you'd stayed before, both times she met with Ervin while she was with you." Anna nodded and Holmes continued, "Was that what Kaleigh wanted?"

"Yes, she disliked waiting alone if she could help it. She always asked."

"And she always told you where she was going," Holmes expanded, and again Anna gave her silent agreement. "Yet last week she wanted to make sure you were well gone before Ervin showed up to collect her. One might say she was anticipating something bad happening to her."

"I suppose… I wouldn't say that _exactly_ , I don't think she actually expected anything to happen. It was more like she was just trying to be more careful."

"Which is my point; extra caution comes with the added anxiety." Anna clearly did not follow, so Sherlock tried a different approach. "You had an argument with Kaleigh that night, yes?"

"How did you-"

"I doubt you would have left her so easily unless you were upset with her in some way." Holmes answered. "You might've hung in the back, Ervin wouldn't have known you were there, just as he never did."

"Okay, yes, we had a row."

"Over…?"

Anna, Sherlock noticed, looked over to Louisa, eyes widening.

"Just tell us _anything_ you can. Cut out the bits you can't share, work around them."

Anna clenched the hand which held Sherlock's handkerchief in and out of a fist, a nervous movement. After a few decades passed she started to talk again, every other sentence uttered as though wild horses were dragging it out of her.

"A while back, Kaleigh made a new friend. She didn't… meet him in the same way she met Izzy. I don't know much about him, really. Next to nothing, except that… well, every once in a while, she would mention him."

"What was his name?"

"I never knew. She referred to him as the 'fashionable bloke' whenever she brought him up, wouldn't tell me his name. She talked about him only twice before that night, and both times she was drunk, so she didn't make much sense. She just… went on and on about how he _knew_ things about people… the sort of people Izzy brought her around whenever they went out together."

"I'm going to take a leap and assume you can't tell me what things the man knew?" Anna shook her head vigorously. "Okay, continue then."

"The night… it happened… we came here for dinner. Kaleigh always ate before she went with Izzy, never wanted to look like a plonker in front of him… and… she was in a weird mood that night, like she was on cloud nine, very distracted… agitated. I couldn't get her to focus on anything, so finally I asked her what was going on, and she just started _talking._

"She told me she had a plan that could set her well off before she was even eighteen, said it exactly like that, all gleeful, and it just… everything felt so wrong. I asked her maybe a dozen times before I could get any real answer, she just kept telling me how disgusting Ervin really was, that if I knew even a fraction of what she had on him, I'd rally the town against him, which is when I started getting upset, 'cos… yeah, she wouldn't stop talking, but she wasn't actually _telling_ me anything… Anyway, I think she could tell she was scaring me, because she told me not to worry…" Anna trailed off and shook her head again, this time at nobody in particular. As she went on, the distant look in her gaze suggested she was reliving that night all over again. "She said the fashionable bloke had given her something that would help her come into enough money to go to any university she wanted, but she needed Izzy to make it happen. She even had a plan to keep the money in a secret account until after she graduated, and then make up a phony scholarship or something like that."

"I thought the Carltons were well-off," Louisa interjected, picturing the newest model Audi Kaleigh casually drove around. "Why would it be of any use to her for college? Her mother would surely have paid."

"Her mother wanted her to marry some Turkish guy she'd been engaged to since she was six. They're families are really tied together, but she'd never met him, and she dreamed of owning a business." Maggie told them despondently. "Actually, we toyed with the idea of opening a bar together. She _was_ smart, but she was rubbish at school. She hardly showed up more than two days out of the week, and the faculty ignored it, since her father was a major benefactor before he died. But she would never have gotten a scholarship on her own. And her mum would have disowned her when she turned eighteen and refused to marry Hamit."

"Can you tell me more about the plan from the fashionable bloke?" Sherlock asked.

"All I can tell you is that whoever he is, he's into something terrible. I felt it, that night. He's the reason Kaleigh died."

"Her mother said she planned to spend a week in Northampton with her friends. Obviously a lie. Where was she really going?"

"To Colchester. It was supposed to last until Thursday."

"Was it a sort of party-getaway, or something quieter?"

"Knowing Izzy things would have gotten mad. Maybe he owns property somewhere over there, I dunno. She was pretty secretive about the whole thing, she was hard-pressed to even tell me where she would be. She never had any trouble telling me every detail before…"

"Kaleigh left this restaurant for two hours before the crash. Where did Ervin take her?"

Anna's eyes lit up with an instant answer. "There's a cocktail bar near Catherine Street, very exclusive, nearly impossible for _legals_ to get into, but it became her favourite place after she met Izzy… I'd never even heard of it before she told me about it, and my parents are lushes. But, if Kaleigh went anywhere with him to drink, it would be there. He didn't take her to many public places locally, where she could be recognised. I don't remember the name, I'm sorry."

Holmes remained quiet, no further question passing through his lips. It was clear he was finished, but Louisa was not. "Anna, when you said that Kaleigh met the fashionable bloke in another way, what did you mean? How did she meet him?"

Perhaps if Holmes had asked, Anna would have refused another answer. As it was, the girl looked positively begrudging as she said, "She met him at the nightclub. Izzy went to chat up a potential client he happened to bump into when the bloke just ambled over to her and asked to buy her a drink. She thought he was handsome so she let him, and from the way she tells the story, he started trying to impress her with his connections, that sort of thing. That's really all I can tell you about him."

"Thank-you, Miss Kruz." Sherlock said softly now, and just the fact that he thanked her at all told Louisa he was perfectly satisfied with everything he'd gotten from Anna.

Louisa stood up with the sisters following suit, and she moved around the table to hug them both. As Maggie released her she gave Louisa a significant look and said, "Call me as _soon_ as you can."

"I will," Louisa promised. "Thanks again. You both have been wonderful."

When they were gone Louisa took her old spot in the booth across from Sherlock. He made no move of his own to get up, presumably meaning to wait for John Watson to arrive.

"They weren't _that_ much help," Sherlock said. "There are still gaps."

"Fill them in, then." Louisa suggested. Perhaps he was lacking, but she felt… full. She felt as though she'd taken in so much information that it would be a while before she could break it all down; store it where it needed to go. "I'm sure you're capable of fairly accurate guesswork."

He hummed in what sounded like agreement, and slowly Louisa went to her thinking position, letting her chin fall back into her hand. She always seemed to need to touch her face while she ruminated. She couldn't have said (for once) how long had passed before Sherlock broke the spell she was under by asking, "Are you thinking about the case?"

"Clearly." She shut her eyes to block him from her view. "Take your own advice and stop interrupting."

He waited only a handful of seconds before following with, "Did you catch what she said about Carlton's opinion of Ervin?"

She popped one eye open. "That bit about the dresses?" He nodded. "Yeah, but to be fair, it was hard to miss."

"What conclusion did you draw from it?" He questioned. "And be thorough."

She opened both eyes now, and regarded him with suspicion. "Why're you always doing that, Sherlock?" she asked, her voice low and to the point.

"Doing what?" his confusion appeared genuine, so she sighed, straightened, and allowed him an explanation. "You're always asking me questions you know the answers to… We literally just talked about this…" She shook her head at him. "'How do I know this?' or 'explain that'. It's as if you want me to prove what I say I know, to prove that I'm not cheating or something. You're like some grueling maths professor, obsessed with students showing their work once they've solved a problem."

"You seem to have answered your own question. _You_ do _that_ a lot, I might point out." His manner was aloof, yet he was a little unnerved at such another direct observation.

"How do you mean?" she asked wearily, and he got the sense she was either tired, or hungry. He pulled out his mobile and sent a quick text, ignoring Louisa's instantaneous glower of tested patience. When he was finished he answered her as though the conversation hadn't paused.

"I mean that you've said my purpose exactly. I _do_ want you to prove yourself, to draw you out; and I want to see what you can do."

Despite his seriousness she snorted. "Oh-kay Sensei." Somehow he sensed there was a frown in her smile. "Why, though?"

"Because you so desperately need _someone_ to make you do it. No need to worry, I don't expect particularly mind-blowing results."

Her eyebrows shot up. She sat back and she folded her arms. "Well. Who knew?" He waited for her to expound, and when she didn't he was forced to ask. Arms still folded she tapped her left index finger on her right forearm as she replied, "Who knew you would ever even attempt to deduce what someone needs?"

It was his turn to glower. "You ought to thank me."

"Actually, I have half a mind to refuse you an answer."

"You won't."

Eventually, she shrugged. "I think it's safe to say Kaleigh was working for an escort service. It's the only thing that makes all the pieces fit," she began, trying not to feel ridiculous under Sherlock's hard stare. "Iskandar Ervin – a man in his forties who prefers to be called Izzy, which alone suggests he's stuck in longing for his younger days and explains his liking for underage girls; it even makes the ring work – because, really, how many men still tote around a class ring as statement jewelry? He was introduced to Kaleigh through whichever medium she was working for during a bored moment in one of his travels – simple, neat explanation for how she came to know a man of his age and status living in Liverpool. Whenever I considered it before, I thought it likely Ervin was her _boss_ , and whatever business they were engaged in was drug-related. But, they actually resemble each other a little… let me circle back to that." She paused, attempting to realign her thoughts. "Okay, then Anna mentioned Kaleigh only met with him four times throughout a year. He took her out on _dates_ , usually to events held in his inner circle, which is a pretty big indicator of Ervin's overall lifestyle, but again, I'll circle back." She screwed her eyes shut, searching for the single remaining sentence that could bridge the gap in her explanation. "The dresses – Anna said he _let_ her keep them, which implies he considered them to be gifts that fell outside of what the boundaries of their particular relationship would allow."

"Ask yourself questions, stop trying to think in bullet points," Sherlock instructed, the moment it seemed like she was about to stop. "Why was she killed?"

"She threatened him," she answered quickly. "With some sort of exposure. She tried to blackmail him with added ammunition and know-how from the fashionable bloke. It was all for money, which Ervin clearly had, but he killed her rather than paying her off. He silenced her completely. So, the ammunition was something Izzy couldn't allow her to live with."

Sherlock nodded, waved her on. "Keep going."

"Ervin would have been able to choose the sort of girl he wanted from whichever escort service he employed. He was a man of means, so he naturally went somewhere expensive. He wanted someone young, someone who _looked_ like him. Kaleigh was innocent, and she could have been his little sister, his niece, his _daughter_. The relationship doesn't bode as sexual, but it was still a relationship. He dressed her how he liked, introduced her to his friends as his date, and gave her gifts." Sherlock could tell by the way her mouth tightened that she was disgusted. He couldn't blame her, but he'd already heard _much_ worse. "I can assume that he never took her anywhere truly public. Yes, he took her to a party, took her on a boat, but it would make sense that his company may have been like-minded, or simply willing to pretend Kaleigh was older in exchange for the perks of friendship with Izzy.

"She must have seen enough to know that Ervin wasn't quite a reputable man, otherwise she wouldn't have been so keen to make sure Anna knew where she was, but when she heard the things the fashionable bloke had to tell her, she was sickened, ready to be done with him and screw him over well. He was sordid, and the strange man had proof. Kaleigh made the mistake of using that proof, and she died for it." Louisa sighed. "I won't make it any more clear than that. Oh, and you should have a look round that cocktail bar, the confrontation probably started there."

"I didn't need to you tell me that," Holmes said, and she frowned at him.

"You didn't _need_ me to tell you any of that, Sherlock," she snapped, before continuing. "He probably believes he got away with it. I reckon he doesn't know anyone was aware Kaleigh was with him. Do you think he would have gone ahead to Colchester?"

"It's possible he did," Sherlock allowed. "But Ervin was a careful man… and you're forgetting something."

"Just tell me what it is," she hurried him along, knowing that Watson couldn't possibly stay away much longer. He'd already surpassed the time he said he'd take by twenty minutes at least, and once he got here, he would take Sherlock and the both of them would move on. Sherlock had utilised her as much as he could, and would have no reason to need her again. She hadn't even had the chance for a proper conversation with the doctor. Or Mrs. Hudson. She seemed so nice.

Sherlock went on, oblivious to Louisa's inner moroseness. "Whomever Carlton was working for knew they were together. They would've had to put them into contact."

Louisa took a break in her musings to smile. "This just keeps getting so _interesting."_

"Find out something good, then?" Sherlock turned to find that, once again, they been sneaked up on.

"Yes, actually."

John tilted his head to look at Louisa. "Afternoon," he smiled, revealing the laugh lines round his mouth. Louisa knew he'd been a happy child from looking at them.

"Hello Doctor Watson," she said brightly, probably overcompensation from the less-than gracious feelings she held for him at the moment; they were hardly his fault.

"Call me John," he came towards them. "Hearing myself addressed as Doctor too often gets my head too bloated for my shoulders."

He set three white paper bags at the middle of the table. The smell that wafted from them instantly had the spontaneously sensual word, _tapas_ , gliding through her brain like a cool kid on a skateboard, but it seemed too good to be true.

"What's this?" she sounded nonchalant, all the while hoping against hope.

"Food from across the street." He said, and he sat next to Sherlock, passing the detective a bag as he unrolled the second for himself. The third, he nudged closer to Louisa. "Hope you don't mind beef. I got a few looks, but Sherlock said you had no one to serve you here."

Actually, the text had read:

 ** _Red Light rubbish, bring food before the waitress starts snapping – SH_**

"John, you beautiful gift," Louisa groaned. She would have thanked Sherlock, remembering how he'd broken off to text randomly, but she knew it would only aggravate him, and he'd been somewhat pleasant so far.

Well, perhaps not _pleasant_ …

"I have some news for you, Sherlock." John said in an off-hand sort of way, though being called beautiful had turned his ears slightly pink. He checked his mobile. "But we've got some time. Fill me in first."

Sherlock opened his mouth but was held from speaking by a guttural uttering from Louisa's end of the booth. "Sweet _God_ , yes." Her cheeks grew blotchy the moment she spied the men gaping at her, but she maintained a dignified eye-contact, her shoulders held at an I-Am-What-I-Am position. "Don't look at me," she waved her foil-wrapped food at them. "Look at each other. You're the only two in the room, Louisa won't exist again until this little baby is done, son."

John's mouth curled into a smile and Sherlock rolled his eyes, but otherwise they did as she asked. She ate while they spoke, feeling pathetically grateful for a reason to stick around. John ate as well, but Sherlock, who commandeered the greater part of the conversation, left his bag untouched.

"I reckon you feel better about the direction of this case." John said, once all had been told.

"Yes, well, Lestrade is in a frenzy, and the majority of the press are spewing wind about how _they knew it all along_ ," his voice went nasally with his mocking, but once he was finished he looked marvelously chuffed with himself; all he missed was a feather boa to complete the queenly manner.

"I ran into him at the tapas place," John started, glad for the perfect segue. "He got a phone call while he was waiting on his order, had to leave before he could even get it. Guess what it was about."

Sherlock's brows met over puzzling eyes as he looked at his friend, who wore that hardly-suppressed smile he developed whenever he expected to "delight the crowd."

"About Ervin?"

"Might've been."

After a beat Sherlock broke into a smile, and _slapped_ his palm against the table. The saucers rattled on its surface and Louisa yelped in a startled laugh, attracting his gaze.

John watched smilingly as Sherlock stared at the waitress. "Well? Have you got it?"

She arched one brow and started to match his smile, but hers held a befuddled note.

"I haven't, honestly."

Sherlock shook his head at himself, muttering, "No, of course you haven't – more to go on, then-" his eyes stayed fixed on hers as he said, in tone of richest satisfaction and anticipation, "Iskandar Ervin is dead."

Surprise fluttered over Louisa's face. There was a soft intake of breath. "What?"

And then, gradually, a look of understanding washed away the confusion, and she titled her chin up a little, her lips parting. "Ohh," she breathed. "Well, it took them long enough."

"A week, exactly."

John, feeling as though he'd been left behind, but knowing there was little use in playing catch-up, offered, "They found his body in the brush metres from where you found the ring that identified him. Lestrade sends along his beckons."

Louisa balled the sheet of tin foil which had cradled her empanadillas between her hands, a sudden quaking in the pit of her belly.

"Near the scene," Sherlock mumbled, and then he chuckled. "Oh, this is so good, John, this is _so good_." He slapped the table twice more, saucers rattling again like terrified villagers under the attack of a giant.

"We'll be going then, I suppose."

"We're going _now_ ," Sherlock said, and he nearly shunted John to the floor in his quest for liberation from the booth.

John, looking much too accustomed to such treatment, merely straightened out the legs of his trousers and said, "There's a car coming."

"We'll be outside when it gets here, then."

"Wait!" Louisa cried, just as Sherlock was making to put on his jacket.

He pushed his arms through the sleeves, looking at her blankly. "Yes?"

"You…" She puttered off, her brain freezing for a moment. "You haven't eaten. I haven't seen you eat all day."

Sherlock shrugged on his coat and fastened it before snatching up his paper bag. John maneuvered around him to pick up his own rubbish, a little embarrassed that he'd forgotten until that point.

"I'll have it in the car," Sherlock told Louisa, and with that he turned around, striding for the passage into the dining room.

John said a polite goodbye before catching up with the detective.

"Sherlock!" Louisa called, rather too loudly.

He stopped in the archway and leant back to look at her. " _Yes?"_ he said, annoyed this time.

She gathered her foil and stuffed it into her bag, and then she was standing, and had apparently decided to say, "Take me."

He squinted and stepped back fully into the Greenhouse, John looking-on curiously as they stared at each other.

"Why?" Holmes questioned.

"I want to go."

He rolled his head to the left and huffed a sigh. "Okay, but _why_?"

"If I don't, I won't know what happened." She said lamely, unable to sum up her bizarre motives any better than that.

"You'll be able to read about it," he countered, his expression unreadable.

"Yes, but I won't really _know_ , will I?" She said, faintly aware of how ludicrous she felt.

His gaze was still mysterious, but he did give the smallest of nods, as though she'd given the right answer.

"Fine," he said at last, and she practically galloped over to meet them.

They left the Red Light together, the doctor, the detective, and the waitress.

* * *

 **Laurence Sterne (** 1713-1768). **A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy**

 **41\. The Passport. The Hotel at Paris**

…I was interrupted in the heyday of this soliloquy [concerning the Bastille], with a voice which I took to be of a child, which complained "it could not get out." – I look'd up and down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, or child, I went out without further attention.

In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words repeated twice over; and looking up, I saw it was a starling hung in a little cage. – "I can't get out – I can't get out," said the starling.

I stood looking at the bird: and to every person who came through the passage it ran fluttering to the side towards which they approach'd it, with the same lamentation of is captivity. – "I can't get out," said the starling. – God help thee! said I, but I'll let thee out, cost what it will; so I turn'd about the cage to get to the door; it was twisted and double twisted so fast with wire, there was no getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces. – I took both hands to it.

The bird flew to the place where I was attempting its deliverance, and thrusting its head through the trellis, press'd its breast against it, as if impatient. – I fear, poor creature! said I, I cannot set thee at liberty. – "No," said the starling – "I can't get out – I can't get out," said the starling.

I vow I never had my affections more tenderly awakened; or do I remember an incident in my life, where the dissipated spirits, to which my reason had been a bubble, were so suddenly call'd home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet so true in turn to nature were they chanted, that in one moment they overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the Bastille; and I heavily walk'd up-stairs, unsaying every word I had said in going down them.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ After a ridiculously long wait, here you are: the final installment of Volume One! I hope at least some of you still love me after that horrendous hiatus. Don't be too upset, I really am sorry :(

I included the inspiration for the title of this piece (in a way, reading Sterne's work here formed the basis for Louisa Daly's character) after the close of the chapter, and I really can't stress this enough: I would be **_delighted_** to read any thoughts or interpretations regarding that process. What do you think it means in the context I've given it? What sort of person is the Starling? It might be a bit annoying to ask of you, but I love hearing perspectives from others, and it's a theme I might use in a future book I'd like to publish.

And the last thing I'll do is answer two questions, the first being in reply to a question that was asked of me, and the second being a question I'm _sure_ more than a few of you dear readers will ask yourselves after reading this chapter:

1) Louisa's surname, Daly is pronounced "daily" not "dalley"

2) Moriarty is _not_ going to be a character in this story, beyond a possible flashback or mention. I've seen a lot of people try to pull off the Moriarty-Resurrection business, but I've never seen it work. I also dislike it when the main villain of the story is somehow tied to Moriarty (i.e. long-lost daughter, former crime partner out for revenge, etc). It didn't work for Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, it certainly shall not for me. In this story, rest assured, men who blow their brains out remain as dead as they ought to.


	8. To Defy the Blue Tape

**As The Starling Says ****Volume Two**

 **Chapter One**

* * *

The early morning which Louisa woke to was relatively clear, almost blue; it had been the sort of sky that promised rain for the next day, and peace for the remainder of this one.

Yet as Louisa traveled further North upon the A1 motorway, she noticed the clouds growing darker and more imposing. There was something foreboding in that… or, it may have been that she was simply uncomfortable, wedged between Holmes and Watson the way she was. After all, she knew herself to be one for which close proximity inspired the divination of omens in nothing.

For as far back as she could remember Louisa had never liked cars, something that has been mentioned before; she had a phobia towards them that came up at least once a day, when given the option to walk somewhere or take a cab. And, at least once a month she had vivid nightmares about driving over bridges with ridiculous gaps chopped right in the middle of them, at the highest point above an ocean of filthy seawater (other drivers chugging along the bridges with her seemed to have no problem 'minding' these gaps, but Louisa always failed horrendously). There were variations in the dreams, of course; sometimes it was a motorway she was forced to take that corkscrewed into the air, or perhaps the lanes grew so narrow that her last thought before falling to her dream-death was that surely the government _wanted_ people to be killed, building roads like that. What every dream had in common was that they involved her trapped in a giant container of plastic and metal; that she always woke up from them with a cold sweat; and that she could always _feel_ that indescribable, torturous tension in her belly – the sensation of rising to great heights at great speed which some people loved and others sensibly abhorred – while locked away in her sleeping mind.

Louisa wasn't dreaming now, of course, and the driver of the car kept with the flow of traffic; but at the moment she had in her mind a loop of empathetic memory tied to Kaleigh Carlton. She was traveling along the very same road the girl had been killed on, and she couldn't help imagining what it would feel like to drive straight into an immense, immovable obstacle.

Then there was the fact that to the left of where she sat there was Sherlock, and to the right there was John; which meant there was nowhere for her to move her hands without touching one of them, aside from her own lap. She made the mistake of brushing elbows with Holmes midway through their journey and received the gifts of his cold, offended gaze and a sigh of discomfort thrown from the back of his throat as he angled his entire body towards his own window.

Louisa reckoned that he was simply like her in this regard. During the evening she spent at Baker Street Holmes had sat close enough to her that their knees had almost touched, and the remembrance that he hadn't been bothered then led her to believe it was because like her, he'd had the freedom to move as he wanted. Still, however, her understanding of his claustrophobia did nothing to settle her own.

Her knees she kept firmly pressed together, which had grown exceedingly difficult with every turn the driver made. The turns had ceased as the car hit the motorway, sure, but by then she was already a wreck. She folded her hands together, unfolded them, folded them again, and now she took to running them over the fabric of the warm stockings hugging her knees, fighting the urge to bounce her feet.

"Have you ever seen a dead body before, Louisa?" She turned her head to look at John, who appeared a little grim. Instantly she knew the doctor's first encounter with death had not been very ideal.

"No," she admitted.

"And have you given any thought to how you might react to seeing one?"

"I have," she lied flawlessly. Such a consideration had actually yet to occur, wrapped as her mind was with irrational fears of a completely different variety. "I don't see why I should be bothered."

John leant forwards a bit to glance at Sherlock, who kept his attention out the window, past which the line of trees flew in an uneven blur.

"What keeps you busy, Louisa?" He asked casually. "Aside from your job at the Red Light, I mean."

"I'm a student," she replied, attempting to take easily to his conversational manner. It was difficult to do so only because she could read what John was thinking in every question; he was wondering why she was there, wondering, most likely, what drew her to come with them, why Sherlock had allowed her. Those questions had all taken a fair bit of effort for Louisa to ignore. "By the next semester I hope to add work-study to my plate, but otherwise I've not much going on."

"What are you studying?"

"Creative and Life Writing is my primary subject. At Goldsmith's."

The glitch in his smile said that this was not the answer he would have expected.

In truth John was hoping to hear that her scholastic endeavours would correspond with her desire to fulfill an interest in a place as specific as a crime scene. Even if she'd said her goal was to become a barrister, the leap would not have been so wide… but a future novelist?

"My sister, Harry dabbles in writing." John said. "I've read a bit, though she deals mostly in cheap romance."

Louisa bit her lip with a smile, but said, "There's merit in all writing so long as the attempt is there."

"If I can ever get my hands on a chapter for you, I'll prove you wrong."

"We're almost there."

The simple statement was more of a reprimand coming from the frozen tundra of Sherlock's section of the car; though his eyes never left the window both Watson and Louisa took the warning for what it was, falling silent to allow peace for the Mighty Brain.

That small latter half of the exchange with Watson proved to be useful, however, calming a few of her persistent anxieties. She was even able to relax her posture by a degree.

Louisa was aware of reaching their destination when they were still about a kilometre away – partly due to the large, blinking electronic detour sings, which rerouted traffic a lane over to avoid the scene. This right lane was still open until an off-ramp splitting into a curve some distance from the flashing beacons of the yellow ambulance parked and waiting to the left; from there, however, the street was eerily quiet, like the lanes outside of a well-to-do neighbourhood of retired seniors… from there the street was completely void of civilian travelers.

 _But that's what you are,_ her mind whispered. _You're a civilian, they won't let you in._

Louisa craned over Sherlock to see through his window, her view getting better the closer they got.

Sherlock glance at her, saying idly, "You're thinking too loudly; you won't be able to do that while we're there."

She settled down, smiling slightly. "Got any suggestions as to how I might stop?"

"You'll never think quietly enough for Sherlock." John offered. "Just throw out a compliment every now and then, he'll be satisfied."

Sherlock flung a withering stare at John as the car pulled off-road, tyres rolling softly in the light swaths of grass before stopping completely. John released his seatbelt quickly, wasting no time in freeing himself from the car. He might've been the only passenger in the car who didn't suffer from faint feelings of suffocation, but still, sitting in the backseat of cars seemed to stiffen him up in minutes these days. Once out he planted his palms against the small of his back and stretched himself backwards, making sure to start gently. Then, he found himself glancing back into the car.

"Coming?"

Sherlock, still clearly feeling slighted, leant across Louisa (who pressed herself firmly into the back of her seat, looking vaguely alarmed) and grasped the handled of the door John had opened. "Will do in a moment. Off you pop."

Then he pulled the door shut, with just enough force to make the motion biting. It took John less than ten seconds to decide that he simply did not care, and then he was loping complacently towards the blue boundary tape sequestering the crime-scene.

"In answer to your question, I have no suggestions," Sherlock began, after vacating Louisa's personal space. She scooted to her right into the space provided by John's departure, a bit caught off-guard.

"That's alright. I'll figure it out." She said, wondering why they were still sitting there.

"I will, however, point out that your panic about being in close quarters travelling at high speeds has been, for the time, concluded; in its absence I expect that you'll calm yourself significantly. There is also the matter of your apprehension about being denied access to the crime scene, which _would_ most likely happen…"

"But you don't think it will?" She asked, dimly aware that he'd managed to read her mind with next to no effort. Her anxiety about driving was a bit obvious, she would allow, but it puzzled her how he saw she was nervous about being turned away.

"I know it won't. As long as you stay in here until I say to come out." He made to open the door to his left, but was halted with a second evaluation of her appearance. "And take of your coat; plum is a conspicuous colour."

"It's freezing out there," Louisa protested feebly, already predicting his words which followed.

"Then you'll just have to suffer, won't you?"

He was out of the car without another word, but even as the door shut Louisa muttered peevishly to herself, "I only just got over being sick."

Beyond the blue tape, nearly swallowed from Louisa's view two men stood; John and Lestrade, glancing down towards the end of a black mass peeping from behind a healthy thicket. They appeared to wait for Sherlock, who was only just lifting the tape and ducking smoothly under it. Some sentences were exchanged, but after that the men sidled completely out of view, fading into the first layer of thick copse.

Feeling agitated and left behind, Louisa turned her attention to the driver. "Has no one paid you, sir?"

"I've been paid, don't worry yourself." The man gave a charming smile through the mirror. He had chestnut waves of hair that instantly had Louisa thinking of Quinlan. "I'll be waiting for you when you're done."

"Thank you," she said, inconvenient wistfulness twisting her stomach. She reached into her bag, pulling it up from beside her feet. "Here, it might be a while."

She passed him the newest book of Sudoku puzzles Maggie had given her (one of six adorable and thoughtful gifts she'd given Louisa for her birthday).

Upon closer examination the man appeared to be nearly a decade older than her brother, but the fading familiarity was made up for when he sighed, and actually looked quite touched. "Well you're a sweet one, aren't you?" He said happily. "I was kicking myself over forgetting my paper at home this morning."

"I'm glad I could help," Louisa smiled, sliding back into her seat with a momentarily contented expression. It was disturbed upon the thought of what could possibly be happening between the others at this moment.

Perhaps if she'd been there to witness it, she might have found it funny.

At the beginning, the first thing Lestrade wanted was to be filled in about the progress Sherlock had managed to make, yet when Sherlock gladly brought up his successful interview with Anna Kruz, he looked flummoxed.

"I've already spoken with Kruz; so has Donovan, so has the investigator called to Carlton's wreck in the first place!" He cried. "What could I have possibly missed? She gave away nothing."

"She did give you something," Sherlock corrected. "She gave you a _lie_ , which ought to have been the first indication of the depths of her true knowledge. There was still much she refused to say, but it took little effort to bridge the gaps."

"Mind elaborating?"

"Not now, I've got work to do," Sherlock said briskly, with only the smallest sound of impatience.

Lestrade nodded begrudgingly and jabbed a thumb towards the thicket, which was when they'd disappeared from Louisa's line of sight.

The copse of trees covered enough ground that seeing the South-bound lanes on the other side was almost impossible. Sherlock turned his eye over his surrounding, cataloguing them as he stepped up to the body bag, zipped partially closed at his feet. Ash trees and oaks conquered the majority of the area, all the brown broken up by the occasional trunk of a silver birch tree. One such birch was two metres to the left of where Holmes and the rest had entered, and possessed a thin branch that had snapped, now dangling loosely against the base. Sherlock blinked; decided to come back to that.

John shimmied more to Sherlock's right, closer to the head peeping out of the body bag. He produced a diary from the pocket of his jacket, a pen from the pocket of his trousers. Without losing a moment he began to scribe a few paragraphs on Ervin's face, which had turned into a much more gruesome sight that he'd anticipated. Lestrade seemed to be waiting for Sherlock to begin.

When Holmes turned to him at last, there was flatness in his eyes. "Leave," he said tonelessly.

"What!? Why?" Lestrade expostulated, indignation hardening his features.

Sherlock's fingers danced over his head as he explained. "Too many people… getting in the way."

"John could go," Lestrade argued, and finally John looked up from his writing.

"John stays," Holmes decreed.

The doctor aimed a smug look to Lestrade, who bared his teeth in a grimace of frustration. "I stay," said John.

"Besides, I need you to talk to the sergeant who found him." Sherlock added, as though to soften the blow.

"I've already spoken to him, Sherlock, and it's a very uninteresting story he's got to tell; He was phoned by an officer who happened to pull over in this area to set up a speed trap. He just happened to look out in front of him the right way and spotted the end of this bag. If you want any more information than that, you can ask him yourself."

"You can find out what sort of theories the sergeant may have. Isn't part of your job to collaborate with your subordinates, get their thoughts bubbling?"

"My job is to find out what I can from this body," Lestrade said, failing to be fooled by Sherlock's flimsy act of _'yeahhhh, teamwork!'_

" _Well then,_ the solution is simple, isn't it?" Sherlock snapped, casting aside the useless façade. "I am the only one here capable of extracting the most knowledge from this corpse, and I cannot _think_ with moronic brainwaves interfering with my process."

Greg grimaced again, and John had stopped smiling; it was fun to watch Lestrade get nettled, but he knew far too well how it felt to be so casually insulted by Sherlock Holmes.

"Fine," The DI turned angrily, but got only a few paces before screeching still at Sherlock's sudden shout of, "Wait! Stop!"

" _Fucking what?"_ Lestrade hissed, arms held out. His spine bent inward, as though he expected a horrifying insect to land on his back.

"Don't just _tramp_ through like a bloody titan; you might destroy evidence."

The look Lestrade flung at Sherlock was perhaps the most hateful John had ever seen from a person, before delicately stepping away, surprisingly light on his feet. Sherlock's attention could not be held long enough to see that look, however, as he'd straightened his coat with a snobbish flourish, and turned back to Watson.

"Well, that was harder than it had to be, wasn't it?" his placid grin slid away as he absorbed John's grave look. He tilted his head. "Problem?"

He's your colleague, and yet you treat him more like an annoying babysitter. He's not brainless."

"I never said he was brainless, I said he was moronic." Sherlock corrected, but for John's point he had no reply; nor, perhaps, any true comprehension. "Lestrade's presence does not currently support requirements. I made an attempt to salvage his ego by presenting him another task to complete, but he persisted in making himself an unwanted obstacle. What else was I supposed to do?"

"I dunno, Sherlock, really. I reckon you handled it fine." John ran a weary hand over his face, and when he opened his eyes again he found Sherlock sending a text on his mobile. "Is it just me, or are you being more insufferable than usual?"

Sherlock pressed the button on the top of his mobile, putting it to sleep as he cast a wry glance at Watson. "If Lestrade were to stay he would only make it difficult to allow Miss Daly a look at the body. Perhaps you're got the time, but I'd personally rather move this whole thing along."

"All that was about getting Louisa back here?"

"Have you forgotten about her already, John? Shame, when you consider yourself such a man of the people."

"Lestrade let me in the first time you brought me along." John replied dubiously.

"You're a retired veteran and a licensed physician. Louisa is a young woman working at his brother-in-law's restaurant."

"Right, that is true," John's brow crinkled as he regarded his friend with lingering feelings of suspicion.

"D'you think anyone saw me?"

Cue the iconic screeching violins as John Watson's heart gave a massive pump in his chest. He spun around on his heel. " _Christ_ I didn't even hear you come up."

Louisa knitted her brow, obviously concerned despite the grin sliding over her face. "I'm sorry," she said, fighting the urge to laugh. "I was trying to be sneaky." She leant to her right to look past John to Sherlock, who smirked at John's effort to steady his heart rate. "How did you get my number?" She asked.

"It hardly matters right now, does it?" Sherlock snubbed her straight away, indicating the body bag with a tick of his head. "You're here, have your look."

Her expression froze. "What?" The octave of her voice was considerably higher.

"Have… your look." Sherlock lifted a brow and turned to face her fully as John stepped out from between them, feeling awkward with them talking through him.

"And your aware that I'm not going to start spouting litany on the hallmarks of wounds?" She added, and it seemed to cost a great feat of willpower for Holmes to calmly nod his head. Louisa shrugged, "Alright then, have it your way."

She picked her way around the body bag and took her first look at Iskandar Ervin's face. Her lips parted. "His eyes,"

"Or lack thereof," Watson quipped, opening his diary once again.

Louisa crouched and leant in a bit, looking closer.

"Don't touch without-" Sherlock began.

"I'm not going to touch him," she murmured. "I'm having my look."

Apparently (and thankfully) Louisa had been telling Watson the truth, when she'd said she didn't see why she'd be bothered by the sight of Ervin's body. She squinted her eyes over Izzy's pale, fleshy face, the disgruntled set of his mouth. The eyes were horrendous, yes; some small part of her absorbed the sight and wanted to vomit, but mostly she was captivated by that horror. She fought to figure out what the killer wanted her to feel when she looked at it. They took his eyes, but they left Douglas his. What did that mean?

Eventually Sherlock crouched next to Louisa, realising that she didn't need much time to adjust (time which he'd prepared himself to give her, to keep away any disapproving frowns from John), and reached into his coat pocket. He took out a black canvas roll-out, and without needing to look he unfurled the thing, chose the right slot, and pulled out a pair of gloves. He handed the bag to Louisa, who took it wordlessly, almost breathlessly; now that she was here, watching Sherlock slide the gloves smoothly over his hands, the apprehension took more of an exciting tone.

Whatever was about to happen, she had been assured by John's blog that it would be _vastly_ interesting.

Holmes snapped brusquely for the roll-out and Louisa handed it over as dutifully as a little boy "helping" to fix his father's engine. She nearly keeled over with satisfaction as Holmes slipped out another pair of gloves, holding them out for her between his index and middle finger. She put them on, still buoyed by that excitement as he withdrew a third pair and handed them to John, who stuffed his book into his pocket to free his hands. As John slid his gloves on, Sherlock finally retrieved his magnifying glass and stuffed the bag back into his coat.

Louisa and John watched Sherlock eye the slice over the man's neck first.

The detective tilted his head in all directions, starting with a lengthy journey over the neck and gradually lifting to his mouth, nose, and the empty pits where the eyes had been. He examined the mane of grizzled salt-and-pepper hair, stringy from dampness and plastered to the forehead in some places.

Sherlock hummed and rocked back a bit onto his heels, magnifying glass dropping from his face.

He looked up at John.

"Well." His head swiveled round to Louisa, who realised once again that she'd been watching with a slightly open mouth. "There's a lot here."

"Yeah?" John looked hopeful.

Sherlock nodded, holding the magnifier to Louisa, who went dumb. He waited a moment before flapping it at her impatiently and she nearly snatched it out of impulsive haste.

John felt his forehead wrinkle, the diary that had only just returned to the palm of his hand forgotten once more. He took a small step forwards, craning to get a look at their angle.

Louisa hesitated. "I didn't really count on this being such an interactive experience."

He regarded her curiously. "Did you think the gloves were intended as a bold fashion statement?"

She opened her mouth to respond, a split second before it dawned on her that she had nothing to give. Holmes seemed to sense it, as he sidled over a bit to let her have room.

Her legs were strong, but her calves began to burn quite a while ago, so she found she _had_ to kneel in the grass, instantly hating the sensation of frigid moisture bleeding through the stocking of her right knee. She peeked a jealous glance at Sherlock, still supported by the toes of his feet.

 _Who cares_ , she thought childishly. _So you can't_ squat _as well as the Mighty Brain, just add that to the list… Looks like a bloody gargoyle in that coat, should've taken_ his _off._

Sherlock seemed to read her thoughts – or, he at least detected something in her visage which hinted that he should be deeply affronted – because he recoiled straight away.

Then, just like that, her expression faltered, and she actually failed at fighting off another smile.

"Sorry," she giggled quietly, almost inaudibly, and before another moment was wasted she opened the magnifying glass and ducked over Ervin's neck.

Sherlock's eyes found John and he tilted his head towards Louisa, silently asking, " _Did you see that?"_

John grinned and folded his arms, nodding and shrugging at the same time.

Louisa scooched a bit closer, growing bolder as Sherlock fell to looking on, still a little thrown; the expression she'd worn, and the obvious ill-feeling behind it, seemed to come out of nowhere, and he wondered what exactly had been running through her mind, whether he'd see her make that face again, and then laugh at herself for it; or whether it was just another random symptom of some random quirk in her personality – like the time he's witnessed her smile sadly at a turkey sandwich.

Now Daly brought her face as close to the body as she could get without losing her balance and face-planting straight into Ervin's neck wound. She gave a tiny sniffle, and the moment she did, practically threw her head away from Ervin's neck.

She screwed her eyes shut. "Ooooo no, dead body smell." She flexed her nostrils a few times and then looked up at John, blinking through watery eyes. "Shouldn't've done that."

"What did you smell?" Sherlock asked, and her eyes travelled up and down his frame in a way that accused him of mental instability.

"Meat."

Holmes shook his head, eyes shutting for a moment. "Never mind, just keep going. Move a little faster."

Looking at the victim's eyes was a shade easier than it should have been. Louisa ducked her face back over Ervin's, zeroing in on the grotesque chasms of flesh and muscle with the barest feeling of nausea, and was, in truth, a bit gratified that it didn't phase her beyond that; she'd never exactly been tested on this part of life – she'd never come up close and personal to human-caused death, had never seen mangled faces or body parts – so when John had asked his loaded questions in the cab, he'd triggered anxious thoughts in Louisa's head. She'd wondered if she was going to be a fainter, she'd wondered if the stark humanity of it all would be overwhelming, catching her in twenty minutes of existential pondering; and most of all she pictured clapping a hand over her mouth and hobbling into the nearest bush, doubled-over with revulsion as Holmes rolled his eyes to the clouds with a shake of his head.

Instead of being disgusted, she was thoroughly fascinated. She found a burst of pride with each aspect she could identify – the optic nerve, obvious from its diametre (which was no bigger than a pencil, just as her text said); shreds of inferior rectus flapped unnaturally in the left eye socket, mostly in-tact in the right; both sockets possessed a view to the superior oblique, clinging to the upper skull, though in the right she had to push back what remained of its eyelid to see it. Above it all Louisa noted that the disturbed flesh, the mangled vessels, the colour of the clotted blood was different from that of the slash over Ervin's neck.

The slice over his windpipe was more… _red_ , the edges stained in a way that even the rigorous washing process this body had been subject to could not get out. The eyes were cleaner, they were drier, even. She wondered if that was simply because the wounds were of completely different natures, produced in equally different parts of Ervin's body…

She returned to Ervin's neck, examined the edges of the wound. Perhaps it was because his neck was so fatty, perhaps it was because the knife's edge sliced through the retention created by flesh; she paid closer attention to the severed vessels this time, hoping to compare these to that of his eyes.

"John, will you have a look?" Sherlock asked, watching Louisa switch between the neck and eyes with almost comic speed.

"I'll look at him at Bart's," John said. "I've got a lot of catching up to do, story-wise. How else will I be able to fill in your adoring public?"

Sherlock shot John a single glance of warning, before turning his attention back to Louisa. "Shall I just tell you, then?"

Louisa, under the impression that Holmes was still talking to John, ignored him thoroughly. She seemed satisfied with all she'd seen of the wounds, and was now aiming the magnifier to the rest of Ervin's neck, focused more on what she hadn't seen of the exposed skin.

When Sherlock cleared his throat pointedly and still received no response, John felt moved to intervene. "You might try using her name," he suggested. "I'll show you how it works: Louisa, dear?"

Louisa turned her face to John with a pleasant expression. "Yes?"

"Sherlock wants your attention, but knows not how to attain it." John cast Sherlock a look of feigned sympathy. "It makes him sad when he feels ignored."

Louisa chuckled, but averted her gaze to Sherlock with no joining comment. Instead she only looked at him with polite expectation.

"I was wondering if you're through with your attempt."

"I was in the middle of my attempt, Sherlock, just now…" she reminded him mildly, before mentally shrugging. "You know what? Yeah, I'm finished. Wonderful timing, you've got."

"Right, on to the fun bit, then." Sherlock rubbed his hands together and gestured nonchalantly for Louisa to get out of his way. She did as he wanted without complaint, preferring to stand out of the damp grass, anyway. "I noticed your repeated comparisons between Ervin's eye sockets and the wound over his neck; I take this to mean you've spotted a distinct difference in their appearance that you cannot explain, is that correct?"

"Yes, I noticed; no, I can't explain it."

"If you could, I would be astounded," Holmes responded seriously, elbows supported on his knees. "Which is why I've elected to shed some light; Ervin's eyes were removed postmortem, which has produced the difference you've noted. The edges of the slice over his neck are swollen and everted; while Ervin's eye lids are still loosely intact I'm sure it caught your attention that there was no sign of clotting and the blood had not reached a laminated state on the inside, which accounts for the difference in colour. This is precisely the sort of thing one can identify within moments, if the right amount of dedication goes into learning these signifiers."

"How long would you say he's been dead?" Louisa asked, though if she wasn't mistaken, judging the time-of-death for a corpse was a little difficult, especially under such frigid weather conditions.

Holmes mimicked her thoughts. "It's hard to say, as the environment may have slowed the postmortem changes of the body; I would be unsurprised to learn Ervin's corpse was cleaned and prepared in a room kept around 27 celsius, and the temperature here is no more than thirty, so it is possible that his core temperature has been in an ambient state for some time… then again with this body mass the rate at which he lost heat would be greatly affected… Too many variables left as unknowns, but if I were to take the state of his rigor mortis as gospel, I'd say…" Holmes tested the rotation of Ervin's head on his neck, which had the barest sign of pliability. "No less than twelve hours; judging from the receding resistance in his muscles, they are beyond the stiffening process, but newly so. If I'm right the rigidity with reduce over the next twelve hours, give or take."

"I thought you said there was a lot here." John said, when it appeared that Sherlock would not go on.

"Wrong choice of words on my part; there are two things here, which mean a lot." His gaze swiveled to Louisa. "Any ideas on what the first might be?"

"The simple fact they took his eyes seems to be screaming its transparency," Louisa said, and John bobbed his head, having noted that oddity as well.

"And the second?" Holmes said.

"I couldn't say," Louisa said. "Is it that the eyes were taken after he'd been killed?"

"That is certainly significant, but really just a more specific way to phrase your first statement. You searched his neck, you looked right at it. Think."

Face rather void of expression Louisa turned her attention back to Ervin's throat, with only one clear thought: _he can't be talking about the wound… so then what_ is _he talking about?_ She looked up to John, in the chance that he might know what Sherlock was on about. Watson was, after all, a doctor. At that moment, however, he appeared more the journalist as he scribbled quickly onto his paper, looking lost to his surroundings.

She shook her head and with a sigh, bent over the body once more. If Holmes wasn't talking about the wound, he must have meant something on the left side of his neck, farthest from Louisa. She hadn't looked on the right side yet, and he did say she'd already seen it.

"I hate to disappoint you, but I don't-" as though the heavens had taken pity on her, and wanted to save her the torture of bearing with Sherlock's special brand of arrogance, she found it.

It was a short blemish, wider than it was long. A little more than four centimetres wide, the contusion was most defined on the edges; they lay parallel to one another, horizontally drawn over a space of Izzy's neck that was almost obscured from view, as from there his neck lay upon the ground. "It was already a few of days old before he died," Louisa whispered.

"How can you tell?" Sherlock demanded, not quite meanly.

"I've sustained a fair amount of bruises, Sherlock. From observation I know that a contusion is only this deep a shade of blue after three or four days. It would have only been able to heal if he'd been alive, as bruising is the result of living tissue."

"In my studies I've found that bruises can be produced postmortem-"

"Yes, but most readily in areas of the decedent where tissue can be forcibly compressed against bone, or in areas of hypostasis." Louisa interrupted, quickly transitioning into, "all of which you already know; so you can't possibly be trying to disagree with me…"

"No, I was only pointing out that bruises can be achieved through tissue that has been dead for some time." Sherlock said quietly, momentarily surprised at her quick knowledge.

"Can those bruises heal, Sherlock?" She said drily.

"They-"

"Just… don't patronise me, okay?"

John, who'd stalled in his account for a quick view, crouched on the side of Ervin's head opposite Louisa. He had a better angle, positioned on the side the bruise had originated. "Was it a collar?"

Sherlock nodded. "Most likely leather due to the severity of this bruise… whoever restrained him thought leather would be a soft choice, leave little evidence. But someone must have pulled him too sharply."

"Maybe he did it to himself?" John suggested. "Maybe took a lunge, made a break for it."

"Look at the angle, John." Sherlock intoned irritably. "The bruise is near the back of his neck, meaning someone was pulling him forward."

"Well they let their dislike of Ervin get the better of them," Louisa said, feeling the need to direct attention away from John's steadily darkening face. "They made a mistake."

"You're saying, essentially, that Ervin was held captive before he was killed?" John asked, making sure to address Louisa.

"It seems that way."

"Why would they keep Ervin for – what, at least four days? – when they killed Douglas the moment they had him?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but Louisa beat him to it. "They thought Douglas was a fluke."

He shut his mouth and waited.

John swooped in, as predicted. "He was a… fluke?"

"They were punished, that's what's happening here." Louisa replied, though the statement did nothing to clear the strained fog from John's expression. "Haven't you wondered why Ervin's body was found here?" She turned to Sherlock. "This is the place where you found the ring, correct?"

Sherlock silently affirmed.

"So, then," Louisa continued, back to John. "That makes this the most significant place his body could have been found. This is where Ervin decided to leap from the car, which was the moment he sealed her fate. He died for Kaleigh, do you see?"

"Does that mean Douglas killed someone? An escort?"

"It could, but I doubt it. Taking Ervin's eyes while leaving Douglas with his seems to say that Ervin's crime was more offensive to whoever killed them. Douglas may not have even killed anyone, let alone another escort from the same company; it depends on the ethics of the murderer. For all we know, petty theft could have earned Douglas his death."

"Well, let's say it was the service Kaleigh worked for who were behind the murders," John began, and Sherlock allowed him to continue without negative comment; for just a moment he'd also considered that Kaleigh's employer might plan to exact some sort of revenge. "Perhaps Ervin's greater crime was that he was involved with a young girl. Douglas could have offed one of their adult women."

"That's not a bad way of looking at it," Louisa said, generously, in Sherlock's opinion. "But this can't really be seen as anything other than a death for punishment. This isn't revenge; it's too methodical and clean. It's… pristine. The way the body is presented to us, even… the face alone exposed, above the declaration of condemnation, which is this…" her voice took on a distant quality as she knelt once more, pointing to the slice over Ervin's neck. "Izzy broke a law, he broke a code, or a vow… The eyes being removed after he was killed…" she was looking at Sherlock now. "You said that it was significant."

"I did," Holmes agreed.

"Well I've thought about that, and the only thing I reckon makes sense is the significance lays in that they didn't want to cause Ervin unnecessary pain. Someone who wanted revenge would have gouged his eyes while he could still feel it, and be done with him."

"Beyond that, the man who removed the eyes was not practiced at such invasive surgeries. There is still some skill, some care, but that suggests someone who took their time, rather than a person adept at this particular exercise. So, while they aren't in the habit of removing eyes, it is something they feel compelled to do in this case." Sherlock spied the instant comprehension dawn over Louisa's visage, so he moved his address primarily to John, who was so busy writing that he could only have been absorbing a fraction of the words he recorded. "I wouldn't call it a 'longstanding tradition' in a strict sense, but the entity which saw fit to kill Ervin also seemed to recognise this specific sentence."

"But why?" Louisa questioned, her mind filled with shadowy images depicting faceless, expensively-dressed men holding council regarding Ervin's suitable fate. "Why would they tack on mangling his face when doing so wouldn't actually affect Izzy? He was dead; he could no more feel the pain of losing his eyes than have any need for them. It bodes as superfluous," she trailed off for a moment, before amending a mental thought. "I suppose it could just be part of the presentation, yes?"

"That is a large factor," Holmes murmured, eyes sparkling. "But it goes deeper than that."

Louisa stood and trapped a lock of hair behind her ear as cold wind suddenly gusted around them. She crossed her arms and ran her hands lightly over the sleeves of her dress, but it was out of habit; she could hardly feel the cold. "It's more than ethics," she said, in a murmur which rivaled Sherlock's with its difficulty to hear.

Sherlock, still crouched, rocked his head back a little to observe her thoughtfully. "Yes, I think so," he said. "More like a faith."

"Can we maybe circle back to the whole 'fluke' thing?" John interjected, before this new direction could take another twist. "I get that both men were killed for their respective crimes, but why, exactly, was Ervin held prisoner while Douglas was executed straight away?"

"Why do _you_ think, John?" Louisa asked, genuinely curious. He _was_ an intelligent man; he had to be, she thought she could see that in him.

"Well, I have a vague idea…" John trailed off, looking uncertain.

"Go on," Louisa encouraged, trying not to sound condescending.

"The people that are doing it – it's not something they've had to do often, is it?" John said, and Louisa shook her head. "Right, so, maybe they're concerned that they've had to do it twice within such a short period of time."

"That's exactly what I thought," Louisa smiled, soon influencing John to return the expression. "Which is where the fashionable bloke comes in."

"The one who tried to blackmail Ervin?"

"He doesn't care about _blackmail_ ," Louisa began, but was stopped by the look on Sherlock's face, which was as suddenly alert as that of an antelope sensing the presence of a lion.

"Lestrade," he announced tonelessly.

Louisa squealed and swiveled her head in all directions before deciding that North would do; she darted nimbly for the cover of a wide, old oak just as Lestrade came into view; John noticed with a sympathetic sort of smirk that the DI was using only the tips of his toes to pick his way over the springy grass.

Sherlock had by then arranged his features into what he deemed a suitable mask as Greg approached.

"How's it going then?" He asked casually, but mystification blossomed as he spied the smile on Sherlock's face; so strong that it threatened to close the detective's eyes.

"Right as rain," Sherlock said brightly. Hearing the phony note in his own voice, he relaxed himself just enough. "That is to say, I'm nearly finished. Think I'll take a look at our surroundings here while you have your men load the body."

Louisa, who'd been peeking at them from over an immense low branch of the oak, turned around, back against the trunk; she began to scan the trees for natural paths, far enough from the centre of the crime scene that no one would see her.

"So soon?" Lestrade said. "I thought you'd take longer than an hour…"

"Well, as I said, I still have the surroundings to examine." Sherlock's voice replied. "I won't be able to meet you at Bart's once you head off, John and I have some things we need to take care of."

There was a small hesitation during which Louisa planned her route, and set off (at the beginning using steps that fanned her legs so wide apart that she resembled an over-the-top cat burglar from some cartoon) before John corroborated. "Right, yeah, lots to do." And that was all she heard.

"Shall I tell Molly to leave him out until you get there?" Lestrade asked, his attention averted far away from the navy blue blur currently careening soundlessly through the trees to his left.

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said, clearing his throat. "Let them know we're ready, will you?"

"Yeah, alright," Lestrade grumbled, not having expected to be sent away a second time. "Make sure you find the time to fill me in about your conversation with Anna Kruz."

Holmes gave a solemn nod, but the moment the DI was gone he released a breath of victory and turned towards the tree he'd last seen Daly vanish behind. "You can come out now. You've got two minutes to get to the car." He called.

When there was no response John perked his head up and around towards the tree. He glanced back at Sherlock, clearly perplexed, before venturing nearer to it. "She's… not there, Sherlock."

"What, was she kidnapped?" Holmes huffed impatiently. He surveyed the trees, finding nothing. "Is this another of your jokes?" He called, masking his befuddlement well. He listened for exactly five seconds before performing an about-face and marching towards the clearing in the brush, aiming for the car. He halted the moment the vehicle was in his view, however; through the front window he could see Louisa leaning between the headrests, chatting animatedly to the driver.

Holmes frowned deeply to himself as she watched her point a finger to a book the driver held up for her, wondering how she'd managed to slip away without his notice.

"Did you find her?" John asked, as Sherlock appeared back into the centre of the sequestered area.

"She's at the car." Was all he said, saved from any of John's further questions by the appearance of the paramedics, toting a neon hued sledge. Sherlock stepped out of the way and travelled immediately for the birch, upon which that snapped twig dangled.

The grass was plentiful throughout the entire copse; springy and vibrant in colour, so that it almost looked like a downy growth of moss sweeping over the dirt. The problem this created was that no footsteps were distinguishable, and it took some time for Sherlock to pinpoint the direction of the trail he ought to have been following. Eventually he noticed a scrape through lichen blossoming at the base of an ash, as though someone had connected their foot against the tree in the dark; the ash was perhaps three metres from the silver birch, hinting at a path which swooped from the West. He tried to follow more, but found nothing. He could only gauge that the shoe with had disturbed the lichen belonged to a man with size eight feet, which meant that he had the help of someone else to carry the body; he also gleaned that the men had travelled to this spot from the south-bound lanes, and had walked through the copse to lay Ervin's body on the other side, (taking long curves round bushes and areas of bald earth, where they might leave or pick up incriminating clues) near where Sherlock had found the ring.

Eventually, John ambled up behind Sherlock. "So, what's left to see here?"

"What do you think?"

"Nothing."

Holmes pulled off his gloves. "Nothing," he repeated, his mouth a firm line. "Quite so."

They left the trees quickly, emerging from the same point they'd entered. "Haven't changed your mind have you? About coming to the morgue..." Sherlock asked, contriving to sound as though he hadn't a care about the matter.

"No, I've got the rest of the day. Mary's taken over for me at the office." His eyes flicked up to Sherlock's for the briefest of moments, but for once; that was all it took.

"You'll thank her for me, I suppose." Sherlock inclined his head.

"Most gracious of you," John said, smiling in that sardonic way that really meant he was pleased. Then he returned a wave to Lestrade, who was standing at rear of the ambulance parked some distance up the motorway, a pair of men behind him shutting and securing the doors. "Will Louisa come as well?"

"Seems that way."

Before Sherlock could venture off John took a step in front of him. For a moment the detective watched the girl in the car, still chatting merrily to the driver, apparently disgruntled.

"Seems odd, actually," John said, trying and failing to catch Sherlock's eye. "Who _is_ she, Sherlock? Why is she here?"

Finally Holmes matched John's stare, brow lifted calmly. "She wanted to come. You were there; you heard her."

"And you just let her." Watson shook his head. "You never let anyone just come along anywhere."

"How would you know? No-one ever asks." Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. "Anyway, I let you come along all the time."

"Weren't you the one who just pointed out the differences between Louisa and me?"

"Do you dislike Louisa, John?" Sherlock asked, features now arranged into polite concern. "Does she bother you?"

"No, not at all," John stammered. "She's – she's charming, if I'm honest."

"Well, good. I sense she's rather fond of you, and it would be a shame if that were one-sided." Sherlock smiled another completely inauthentic smile. "That's all cleared up now, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't-" John made to keep Sherlock from moving on, and the smile vanished from his face.

"I think it is." He said coldly. "Who's to say how long she'll be around? For now, she is. Simple. Now leave me alone."

John hesitated, unwilling to let it go. "Yeah, okay, alright." Was what he settled for in the end, thinking he ought to keep his piece until he had a word with Mary about it; she, at least, was pretty good at figuring out how John felt about things.

When Louisa saw Holmes and Watson _finally_ covering the distance to the car, she waved her hand frantically at the driver, whispering surreptitiously, "Put that away, I'm not supposed to make friends."

"Who told you that?" the man asked, looking oddly disturbed. The expression he wore was that of a school nurse concerned about repeated bruises.

"No one; it just happens that I'm keeping some highly irritable… but completely _harmless_ company at the moment." She chuckled.

By the time Sherlock was opening the back door on the left, John coming up on the right, Louisa was an immovable statue in the middle, a veritable police-dog. Sherlock caught her eye as he shut his door and strapped himself in, and he picked up the sense that she was fit to burst. The moment she noticed him looking, however, she moved her eyes to the front, hands fidgeting restlessly in her lap.

Sherlock smirked; if nothing else, there was something to be said for her enthusiasm

* * *

 _ **Author's Note**_ : Well, I promised you good people that I would update within the week, and I am proud to have delivered! I've decided that I'm going to limit myself to around eight thousand words per chapter, just to make the updating process less arduous. This will probably mean that my original plan to have six chapters per volume will fly straight out the window; this second volume will probably be closer to ten, eleven chapters. I want to get on a regular schedule again for this piece, now that my life has slowed back down. I've really missed it, and I've missed communicating with the small band of followers who've dedicated their time to reading it. I just hope not too many people have lost interest, given the long hiatus this story has taken.

Aside from that, I thought I'd bring up the decision to leave the second volume in this submission, rather than starting a new one; I reckon this way it won't be difficult to find it, and the transition might be less clunky. Plus, I don't want to obligate anyone to follow a second submission to keep up with the same story, when the first is only six chapters long.

Yours truly,

Emily


	9. Some Brains Can't be Cracked Open

**As the Starling Says ****Volume Two**

 **Chapter Two**

* * *

Before the hour was up, John and Sherlock were stopped at the main entrance of St. Bart's hospital. Sherlock led the way through the Emergency station, directly into the canteen. When he stopped at a vacant table and pulled out a chair, he was met with nonplussed looks from both John and Louisa.

"We're waiting for Lestrade and his team to clear out." Sherlock told them, gaze lingering on Louisa. "At the moment Lestrade is proving himself to be rather fervent in his sudden love for 'protocol' as he so dubs it; I think it would be best if he didn't know you were here."

"Agreed," She pulled a chair out across from him without further prompt, and John followed suit soon enough.

For nearly fifteen minutes silence prevailed, before Louisa abruptly stood. "Do either of you want anything?" She didn't bother turning her eyes to Sherlock, whose tapas takeout was currently freezing in the back seat of their car.

"You realise it's not even been two hours since your last meal, of course." Sherlock stated.

"I'm not going for food, I'm going for coffee."

"Well, coffee I'll take." Louisa rolled her eyes, but ventured on without comment.

John and Sherlock passed the time she was away in utter silence; and even once she returned no one seemed able to think of a thing to say. A little over half an hour passed, during which Louisa pulled out her mobile and unwound a pair of earbuds, turning on her favourite playlist of the moment. She leaned far back into her uncomfortable plastic chair and crossed her arms over her chest. Her gaze settled on the table top, her brow molded into a set of concentration that made her look almost angry. She closed her eyes for nearly ten minutes at one point, and John was convinced she'd fallen asleep until they abruptly opened again, still full of focus.

That was that for another fifteen minutes, until his phone rang. He looked at the name which flashed across his screen, then at Sherlock. He caught Louisa's attention by standing, and she pulled out one of her earbuds. "It's Mary, I'll be back."

"If we're not here when you return, look for us in the morgue." Sherlock instructed, familiar by now with the abominable length of John's phone calls with the ever-verbose Miss Morstan.

John pointed the phone at Sherlock. "Ta," he said, before answering the call. "Please tell me Mrs. Shanahan screamed at you again; I love those stories…"

Louisa, who still had her left earbud wrapped around her finger, smiled at John's retreating figure. "That's really quite lovely, isn't it?"

Sherlock graced her with a shrewd glance. "Funny…"

"What's funny?"

"You don't strike me as the sentimental type; at least, not where romance is concerned." She wanted to ask for more clarification, he could see it in her face… but she wasn't going to, he could see that as well. "You've never had a boyfriend after all, have you?"

"No, I've never had a _boyfriend,_ " Louisa grimaced at the final word, hating the sound of it. "Please don't bother explaining to me how it is you know that; I'll assume it was through god-like omnipotence, the likes of which my small mind cannot fathom anyway."

"You've never had a boyfriend, you sneer at the very mention of it, and you've not one true friend in all the world." Said Sherlock, his eyes alight. "I'm curious to know how one such as you comes to decide something she disdains is 'lovely'."

"Just because I've never had a relationship with someone doesn't mean I disdain the idea of it. I dislike the idea of having a _boyfriend_ , yes; a boyfriend is something a girl should have and leave behind in primary school. The dating game is childish, and still, after all this time, it remains a completely archaic process in its roots. I'm of the mind that I'll never date; I won't even date the man that I'll marry, if I should ever meet him. We'll introduce ourselves, we'll become friends, and we'll just… never stop being friends. He'll only have to throw me a shift from time to time and I'll be happy. Hopefully I'll be lucky enough to end up with someone who quite _likes_ a shift, and it'll be a nice win-win." She added thoughtfully. She was gearing up to continue, but she was stalled by something she saw in his face. "I think I've baffled you," she said keenly, and completely unbothered. "I don't know why you're surprised. You saw my bookshelf, didn't you? I'm a lover of stories, Sherlock; a masterpiece romance has wormed its way more than once into my heart, and as such I believe in love."

"Is that how you'll earn your living, then?" Sherlock questioned, somewhat harshly. "You'll pen a list of smut titles about damsels in distress and gallant young men?"

"Sometimes the conclusions you leap to are amusing," she said, a small smile ghosting her features. Though it was immensely difficult to tell, Sherlock was sure he detected a hint of hurt feelings. "I couldn't begin to tell you what genre the stories I've written abide by; are there elements of romance in each? Yes, because romance is humanity, Sherlock. Just as death, murder, and jealousy are. I plan to tell the truth in my writing; that is my only goal."

"And have you never considered the possibility that you play at being so human?" Holmes went on, itching to get back to his original point. "At times I wonder about it myself; there is an illusion you create - are you aware that you're doing it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Louisa said, and in her mind she was currently being honest.

"How many friends do you have?"

"Three that I'm close with."

"That's a lie," Sherlock said readily, and Louisa felt a pull in her chest, realising a moment later that it had been her heart.

"Why would I lie about that?"

"I really don't know," Sherlock shook his head, his expression rather benign. "That's precisely what I wonder about; do you know that you're lying? D'you really believe those people are your friends?"

"Sherlock, your twisted language is really starting to get on my nerves," Louisa warned, her jaw clenching. "Say what you mean and be done with it."

The final question was there, at the tip of his tongue, wanting only a single prompt from his brain to topple off. He wanted to ask her, he really did. He really did – that one question that would make her eyes widen and her cheeks flush, that would make her realise she couldn't hide anything from him for very long.

Yet at the last moment he inhaled the question, nailing it shut inside where it belonged; there was a way to get answers from Louisa, but this wasn't it.

It was precisely that insatiable curiosity to know whether he was right or wrong that kept him from digging it all out of her. Normally people gave away buckets of information, when irritated to the right temperature; but in this case he was sure that if he toed over the line, she would close up, and it might be possible that he would never know then… He couldn't say that Louisa seemed to be the grudge-holding type, but she had a temper which she kept buried, a temper that might finally rear its full head at the wrong time, if Sherlock said the wrong thing. She would be difficult to manipulate.

"You know, I think I'll let it go," he said. He picked up his coffee, though it was verging on lukewarm. "Thank you for the coffee."

"Are you letting it go because you want to bring it up at a better time?" She asked, one brow arched.

"I'm letting it go because I don't fancy the idea of starting an argument."

"Please," she scoffed. She adjusted her position in her chair, sitting upright. "Let's just be honest with each other for a moment, yeah? I'd like to give you some genuine advice."

He set his cup on the table and waited.

"You're right to let it go, you're right to abort what is, frankly, a horrendous attempt at learning about me. I mean, I would call your technique cross-examination, if half your questions weren't completely rhetoric or unclear. What I find sad is that this method has obviously worked for you in the past, since it's become like instinct to you." Holmes sighed.

"Is the advice somewhere in sight?"

"I'm getting there," she said reproachfully, but as she went on her tone became calm once more. "I don't know how much you were able to figure out about me; I'd like to say it can't be much, but that's wishful thinking. So, I am forced to imagine it's rather easy for you to gather that I don't open up to people easily, that I don't tell people personal things about my life, my family." She broke off to stare at him, expecting some sort of acknowledgement.

He looked vaguely disgruntled as he said, "Yes, it was one point amongst many."

"The fact is, people never ask. I'm simply not the sort to volunteer information about myself. I'm more of a listener. I like to ask questions, and others like to be asked questions." She reached for her coffee and pulled the lid off the top. He was almost inclined to believe her, having just said something very similar to Watson before the journey here (people really _don't_ ask, do they?)… But his doubt was insistent. "If you ask me, Sherlock, I may very well tell you. But things like time and place matter. For instance, I would much rather spend my time before entering a morgue listening to soothing music, instead of battling against your inadvertent antagonism."

"The only thing I've _done_ is ask you questions," Sherlock said, brows meeting in confusion.

"No, Sherlock, what you did was much more backwards." She laughed. "You presented me with three facts about my personality, which I then had to argue against. Then you asked me questions which were worded as though aimed at yourself. However, you do receive some redeeming points: you realised your tactics were misguided and immediately backtracked. I only hope that I can be of service to you in your future endeavours towards friendship."

She took a small sip of her coffee, a smile still tilting her lips.

"You think my goal is friendship?"

"Why else would you want to know personal information about me?"

"Curiosity."

"I'm not a case, Sherlock; you're curious about me because we get on well. As well as we can, anyway…" she pursed her lips, remembering that she spent more time being flustered by him than finding leisure in his company. "You let me come with you today, and I see no reason why you shouldn't let me again. Or, at least, fill me in about these interesting stories you casually experience. I've put a little thought into it and I've decided that I want to like you, Sherlock. I really want to be part of this insane dimension you've put together. It's not as though I'll get in your way. I have no expectations of you; I just want to follow along and occasionally insert myself into your conversations with John. And I think you know all of this, and you're okay with it. So, why shouldn't we be friends?"

He was frozen so long that Louisa had to stop herself from waving a hand in front of his face to check for signs of cognition. She did call his name though, eventually followed by, "Have you been hacked? Or is this one of those silent seizures?"

His eyelashes fluttered as he blinked rapidly, and then he looked at her as though surprised to find her there. Slowly recollection seemed to flood in, and like rubble falling from the bed of a lorry the words tumbled from his mouth. "Louisa, I feel myself bound to tell you that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I am incapable of returning it."

"Have I propositioned you?" She cried, cheeks flaming.

"Have… Haven't you?"

"Not unless I blacked out and my body was taken over by a dormant alternate personality." Louisa said, shedding her coat in response to the warmth vibrating along her skin. "Christ, Sherlock, what could I have possibly said to make you think I was coming on to you?"

"Well, you first mentioned that your ideal romantic attachment would be started with an introduction, followed by friendship." Sherlock reflected quickly upon his own logic, coming up with no holes. "With that in mind there appeared to be added meaning to your proposal of us becoming friends."

"I also said I'd prefer whoever that person is to be relatively keen on romantic attachment," Louisa pointed out, and now that her embarrassment had cooled she could grasp the humour in the whole thing. "I can see where you got the idea… But trust me Sherlock, I have no intentions of trying to seduce you. You and I are strictly platonic, you never have to worry about that."

"Fair enough," Holmes muttered distractedly; he pulled his mobile from his pocket as it chimed. "It's Molly. Lestrade and the rest have gone, we can carry on now."

Neither of them spared another word as they stood simultaneously from their seats. Sherlock led the way out of the canteen through two wide, swinging doors that reminded Louisa of leaving the server's alley at the Red Light. There was a certain confidence to Sherlock's step that hinted he thought of St. Bart's as "his turf". It was sort of an endearing way to see him.

With each turn they took, however, a certain anxiety began to blossom as gooseflesh at the back of Louisa's neck; she'd always detested hospitals for the same reasons most people detested hospitals – for the sickly sanitised smell, the stark white paint, the hollow click-clacking sound made from shoes hitting overly-polished linoleum. In response her paranoia popped its head up for another round, reminding her that she might actually be in some serious trouble if she were caught here. Sherlock gave off the impression that he could deal easily enough with any conflict that may arise, but how much protection could he actually give her; when he was just as much a civilian as she, in all but reputation and renown?

She was gifted with a small dart of relief, pricking a hole in that balloon swelling in her belly; some part of her must have expected to find a room full of people clamoring to get a look at the body upon entering the morgue (despite the fact that Sherlock had told her everyone had gone) but aside from the late Izzy Ervin there was only a woman; She had long hair with a coppery sheen plaited straight down her back, and a face full of soft features.

Actually, having another woman around was a little comforting. Too many men typically meant a lot of extraneous ego, which was rarely a good thing, in Louisa's experience.

Once inside Sherlock swept towards the examination table occupied by Ervin's corpse, while Louisa loitered at the door. The plastic and body bag had been disposed of, but he was still dressed. Sherlock looked almost delighted, clearly having expected to find him scoured.

"Greg wanted to make sure you got a look at his clothes, with as little tampering as possible. He said he'd be in touch." The woman, who Louisa assumed was Molly, smiled. "I told you he still trusts you."

"Enough of that," Sherlock pulled off his Belstaff and draped it unceremoniously over a cart of incisive tools. He pulled another trolley towards him, this one bare. Molly turned her head, peripheral caught by the sight of Louisa.

She left the examination table and approached with another smile. "Are you lost?" She asked. "If you're an intern, you're rather far from where you should be."

"Oh, no I'm not an intern," Louisa said hurriedly.

"May I ask your name?"

"Louisa Daly," Sherlock swopped down upon them out of nowhere; a great, agitated bat. He gestured towards the woman now. "Louisa, this is Molly Hooper. Louisa is a waitress; Molly loves cats and possesses abysmal taste in men. Can we proceed, now that the sodding _niceties_ have been dispensed with?"

Sherlock felt a muscle twitch in his cheek and realised he'd clenched his teeth rather hard. He relaxed his jaw, features relaxing with it. Molly looked a little alarmed; but Louisa looked defiant, and for a long moment they just stared at each other. He could feel her trying to assess him, which only aggravated him further; she shouldn't bother wondering _why_ he was upset, she should simply correct her behaviour.

"People are going to wonder why I'm with you, Sherlock." She told him, appearing stern now that she reckoned she'd found him out. "No sense in biting off heads, just because you haven't got a good answer for them."

"I didn't mean to offend," Molly interjected, her voice soft as the coo of a dove's next to Louisa's curtness.

"You haven't," Louisa told her, still glaring at the detective. "Sherlock's forgotten his manners again, which happens a lot."

Molly started as John came through the door; he'd entered casually enough, but with the tension in the room he may has well barreled through wielding a scythe.

"Haven't been without me long, I hope." He said, before catching the awkward huddle Sherlock, Louisa and Molly had made not far from the door he entered through. "You've not even started?"

"We're starting now," Sherlock broke the small circle as he went back to the cart he'd commandeered. He unfurled the black canvas bag and selected from it a fresh pair of gloves, his magnifying glass, a small torch, and (in a moment that reminded Louisa of uncapping various stages of a Russian nesting-doll) another, smaller black roll-out; this one was rather like the bag Louisa kept for the set of watercolour brushes stored at home, but rather than crafted wood and sable, gleaming metal instruments were strapped inside. He rolled the larger bag back into submission and quickly went to stuff it back into the pocket of his Belstaff.

John and Molly jumped back into their original paces with alacrity; Molly stood next to Sherlock, looking so ready that Louisa imagined she was only waiting around in case the detective needed something. John pulled off his black jacket, leaving his notepad in its pocket. Louisa was glad he did, interested to see what sort of procedure John would take towards the body. She was the last to join the group, hovering over gradually as her curiosity overcame her apprehension. She stopped beyond Watson, however, as he borrowed Sherlock's thin torch and set to moving the mangled lid of Ervin's right eye for a better view into the crater beneath.

After a moment the doctor held out his hand, and with only a momentary glance in his general direction, Holmes knew what he wanted, and handed it over: a pair of forceps with micro-fine tips, which John then used to improve his view under Ervin's right eye lid.

"He looked like he was trapped in a spider-web when they brought him in," Molly spoke offhandedly, but the eyes that watched Sherlock were highly interested. "I can't figure out why they go through all the trouble to wrap the victim's body this way."

"It's all about the presentation, isn't it?" Sherlock responded, inclining his head to Louisa, who was pleasantly surprised that he would give her any credit at all. When Molly's brows twitched with an obvious lack of knowledge, Sherlock went on with very little patience. "The plastic serves no purpose – it has no function, and as you've just pointed out; the act of wrapping the body would add a fair bit of time to what was already an extremely thorough and arduous procedure. Therefore, one is able – or should be able – to infer the effort was purely for visual impact."

"But why? What was the message?"

Sherlock sighed through his nostrils, looking put-upon. He looked at Louisa now, jerking a thumb in Molly's direction as if to say, _"take care of that, will you?"_

Hooper switched her gaze from Sherlock to Louisa, who did not miss the crestfallen arch through her eyes. She explained quickly, convinced that Molly had only asked to start a conversation with the detective. Sherlock found nothing to add until the conclusion of her synopsis to Molly. "… In truth it's looking more and more like Ervin was involved in some sort of… cult. I don't really like that word, it doesn't fit, but it's the closest term I can think of to define it; the details are still so unclear. Douglas was involved with them, too, but I don't believe these two particular men actually knew each other. The only thing they have in common is they each defied the rules of this 'cult' and their punishments were death. Well, that and they both got on the wrong side of someone we know as the Fashionable Bloke."

Sherlock, who'd been in the act of turning out the lapels of Ervin's suit, halted and looked up.

"You think Antoine Douglas knew the fashionable bloke?"

"Well… yeah."

"How can you tell?"

"D'you disagree with me, Sherlock?" she asked. "'Cos if you do, then it would probably be a less irritating experience for me if you made your point first."

"I haven't said I disagree, have I?" he countered, straightening up from over the examination table. "I simply want to know what leads you to this intuition."

"Not now," she said.

"We're working-" he began hotly, and she groaned with frustration.

"Sherlock, it's nearly three o'clock and I've still got a half-day's worth of course work to finish by noon tomorrow. I plan to be in my bed by nine o'clock, and if I am not… I swear, you will pay."

Sherlock's mouth pulled a little, and he cast John a look that – astoundingly enough – implied that all his current sufferings were somehow Watson's fault. John rolled his eyes but nevertheless returned to his mission, moving his target from Izzy's right eye to his left. Then Holmes muttered something that was probably offensive and sulky under his breath, and from there all was quiet for a long moment. Once she was satisfied with the production taking place, Louisa dove back into the conversation with Molly, speaking even more quickly than she had before so as not to miss her chance to catch a glimpse of Ervin's clothes before Sherlock wanted them removed.

She explained what she and Holmes had learned from the short interview with Anna Kruz, and all the solid conjecture that had risen from it, painting a clearer picture of the fashionable bloke for Molly's benefit.

"Is that all, then?" Molly asked, clearly attempting to maintain an amiable manner, which Louisa could appreciate.

"That's all I can think of," Louisa shrugged. "Any questions?"

"None," Molly smiled, once again revealing long dimples that made her considerably more attractive.

Feeling positive, Louisa joined the party at the examination table.

Watson gave a friendly tilt of the chin as greeting as she drew up on his left side, and he shuffled over a little to his right to make room for her. Sherlock, finished now with scanning the underside of Ervin's tie, lay it back as it had been, face exposed. It was a navy-blue tie, subtle, miniscule dots the colour of rust evenly dispersed over it; it was ugly. The body itself was positioned as though Ervin had died in his preparations for being shot out of a giant cannon; his palms were flat against the sides of either of his upper thighs, his legs locked together from having stiffened after being wrapped in all that plastic. Sherlock began to break the rigor in Ervin's arms (which really was not a very pleasant thing to watch or listen to), flexing his muscles.

"He's still got his tie clip," Louisa leaned over, wanting to touch it, perhaps take it off, if she would be allowed; Sherlock had let her look at the body in the first place, let her pour over it. Then she remembered the gloves, her fingers curling back into her hand.

She looked up and around, preferring not to disturb Sherlock; she knew he had several gloves still tucked into that canvas bag of his, but he'd just gotten settled into his routine. Molly seemed to have vanished, until Louisa located her at a clunky old computer near the doors, typing into a pre-drafted chart. So, she decided to wait, hoping that if she was patient Sherlock would want her to see something and he would hand a pair over.

She stared hard at the spot on the top of his head, where the natural part of his hair swirled to an end, wishing that she'd been near him when he started his own examination; he might've given them to her instinctually, as he had for John. Then, Sherlock's eyes suddenly clapped onto hers and she jumped, a nearly inaudible squeak shocked out of her.

"Molly has my coat," he told her, expressionless and toneless. His eyes fell back to the body without another word.

Louisa looked to the pathologist, still perched on the stool situated in front of her workspace. Sure enough, Disappointed was draped over the spot to her left, waiting to be collected.

 _He left it on the cart_ , Louisa thought, but as she ventured over to where Molly sat Louisa reckoned she must have stolen over and picked the coat up, unnoticed by Louisa as her attention had been fixed to the crown of Sherlock's head. _She might've just wanted to be nice,_ she reasoned. _Getting it out of his way, and all that_.

"Molly?" The pathologist started even more violently than Louisa had just moments ago.

"Oh, sorry," Molly said, features relaxing once she'd whirled around and identified Louisa. "I didn't hear you come up. Unfamiliar voices always spook me when I'm in here."

"Yeah, with the dead people and such," Louisa gestured to the wall of hatches, marked with the names of the corpses inside them as she bobbed her head. "I get it."

"Did Sherlock need something?" Molly asked, and just the _way_ she said his name solidified every thought Louisa had had concerning Hopper's esteem for Holmes since she entered the morgue.

Still, though, Hooper hit the point home with the dejected appearance that followed Louisa's response, "I just need his coat for a moment." Molly's gloom was well-concealed, but Louisa had spent many years analysing the endless array of emotions the human visage could betray. Hooper's lips (already naturally turned down at the corners) pressed and bowed deeper, that same dimple flickering in her right cheek. That was all, but somehow the feeling expressed was strong, and Louisa found herself genuinely feeling badly for a woman she knew next to nothing about.

Before the moment was even up Molly had brightened once more, and she quickly picked up the Belstaff and handed it to Louisa. "Of course,"

"Thanks," and as Molly was clearly gearing up to turn around Louisa added, "hang on, I won't be keeping it."

Hooper waited with a pleasant expression glued to her face as Louisa reached into Sherlock's left pocket and pulled out the canvas bag. She produced the gloves quickly, deciding to borrow the second magnifying glass she found in the first section she'd poked in; this one was clearly very rarely used, compared to the one Sherlock preferred. It was probably only included in this bag as an emergency back-up, so Louisa didn't feel too nervous about using it.

As she replaced the bag and held out the coat for Molly, Louisa said, "Aren't you going to take a look?"

"No, when he's here I rarely do. I look at whatever he finds." Molly folded the coat over her arm, and placed it back into its spot next to her. "He gets insufferable when he feels crowded."

"You're right; I've seen him at it." Louisa agreed, and Molly smiled again, this time with a little more substance behind it. "Thanks again."

Molly nodded and now she turned back to her computer monitor without Louisa stopping her.

Back to all the action, Louisa found Watson shining his torch into Iskandar's ear canals, Sherlock now bracing his hands under the knee and over the calf to manipulate the muscles of Ervin's right leg.

Louisa pulled on her gloves and huddled once more next to John. She reached for the tie clip, mentally preparing herself for an outraged cry from Sherlock, for her to cease all action. She slid the clip from the hideous fabric of Ervin's tie and held it up in her latex-clad palm without a single protestation announced.

It was an ordinary tie clip – plain, actually – a thin, straight bar of flattened gold. She wondered why Douglas had had his tie clip nicked when the killer saw fit to let Izzy keep his… And, of course, there was only one answer to that question.

She slid the clip back onto the tie, knowing of no other place she could put it. Though, as she turned her eyes about the room in the quest for some official-looking bag or bin, she spotted a box of medium-sized gloves bolted to the side of a counter not even a metre behind where she stood. _All that bother for nothing_ , she thought, smiling at her own idiocy.

Then she busied herself with lifting the cuff of Ervin's left sleeve, latching on to the recollection of what Holmes had told her the second time they'd met, when she pretty much forced conversation out of him.

 _Evidence of a watch, regularly worn_.

Upon sight Louisa marveled at how hairy Ervin was, in placed he hadn't habitually groomed. The third joint of four fingers on each hand were swept with a covering of hair thick enough to double as doll's toupees, should Iskandar have wanted to enter that market; and the long, fine hairs exposed, curling just above his wrist, promised a _monstrous_ forearm. If he'd worn a watch on that wrist every day, surely the hair would have been worn away at least a little, or else the strands would forever be caught in the band of said watch; then again, the balance of probability leant more in favour of Ervin being a right-handed man.

She leaned awkwardly over the victim's waist to reach his other hand, hardly disappointed; she'd only taken a look at the left first so she might have something to compare the right with – though, by the amount of hair on that one alone, comparison proved to have been unnecessary.

Louisa smiled when she shimmied the cuff of Ervin's shirt and jacket as far up on his right arm as she could get it. The line of his wrist was as smooth as though hair had never grown there, and an obvious difference of skin tone was evenly defined as well.

"What do you think?"

Louisa's attention snapped to Sherlock, smile still faintly showing. "I think we need to find his tie clip." She responded.

Sherlock never returned her smile, not with her staring at him as though she expected him to, but his eyes did radiate something. "I would have to agree."

"But… the tie clip's just there." John looked up from the ears, pointing to the gold strip upon Ervin's tie. "You were just holding it, Louisa."

"Not that one, clearly." Holmes straightened and began to speak so quickly that Louisa had trouble keeping up. "Douglas was found with his tie clip and watch missing, remember? He obviously wasn't robbed, as his cash was left snug in his wallet, his mobile still in his breast pocket; which means the people who took care of his body had enough reason to believe the items they took to be substantial clues which could lead to them. As has already been outlined for you, the similarities between Douglas state of death and Ervin's are too stark to ignore, so one is left to think along the lines of questioning the _differences_ between them. Ervin has a tie clip, and no watch, though he obviously wore one every day, and as he managed to keep up enough appearance when he'd been caught, one can assume that he would not have suddenly changed his mind about wearing one. As we know the watch was taken, we also know the watch was a clue, something worth confiscating. He still wears his tie clip, however. So what does this tell you?"

John had no sooner opened his mouth to respond than Sherlock swept over him, impatient already. "It tells you that if Ervin and Douglas both had in their possessions a watch which could give us vital knowledge, then they also both possessed a tie clip of equal threat to the killers anonymity. But, the killer doesn't have Ervin's tie clip, as he was not, apparently, wearing it when they took him. In simplified terms, somewhere in Iskandar Ervin's home or regular dwellings, there is a tie ornament floating round which can potentially tell us everything."

"Well the killer will be looking for it too, won't he?" Watson broke in, having stopped midway through a second look at Ervin's eyes. "And he's got a team who cleaned the body, so he'd bound to have some help in the search."

"It's just as likely that they've not found it yet," Louisa responded quickly, hoping to keep Sherlock buoyed; she could tell he was content, as of yet, following what little of the obscured trail he could, but she also strongly sensed that motivation was severely lacking in Sherlock's mind, and she wanted to preserve what she could. "We've still got a good shot."

She cast a glance at Sherlock, and John, always the dedicated friend, seemed to cotton on. "Of course," he agreed earnestly. "We'll have to take a trip back to Liverpool then, eh, Sherlock?"

"There's no getting around it," Sherlock nodded, though he still looked slightly reinvigorated. "What do you make of the rest of him?"

"Well I had a good peek at the eyes and I reckon you're right; definitely done by someone with very little experience in this area."

"What makes you say that, though?" Louisa asked, and John moved more to his right again, this time giving her his spot to the left of Izzy's head altogether. He handed her the torch.

"Shine that in the left eye," John instructed. Louisa did as he said, missing the affronted frown which developed over Sherlock's visage as he watched her slide open the magnifying glass she hadn't asked to take. "This one is clearly more damaged, and that's partly due to the fact that the hand performing the incisions was uncertain. The reluctance is evident in the several slashes you can see through the rector inferius, several other places as well; usually, when you see cuts or tears through skin that vary so greatly in depth and damage, yet still remain shallow, it comes from a person who might be forcing themselves to do the work. If you look at the right eye, there's almost no damage to the surrounding tissue, aside from the places where the tool used was pushed through the cut out the eye, which can't be helped. By the time he got to the right eye, he'd grown accustomed to what he was doing."

On instinct John tossed a glance towards Sherlock, who was looking at him with another of his barely-visible smiles. "Very good, John."

Trying very hard not to feel like a delighted hound at his master's praise, John merely grinned and addressed Louisa once more. "Can you see what I'm talking about?"

"I do," she murmured, internally marveling at the specific brand of intelligence puzzles like Ervin and his death required for solving.

Louisa mainly watched from there, attempting to absorb the movements of Sherlock and John, to mentally jot down their manoeuvres. She wished at one point to someday see the pair at it with a body that hadn't been so completely cleansed.

After many minutes Holmes finally straightened and snapped his magnifier shut with an aggravated grimace that came from nowhere. He bellowed for Molly's assistance with disrobing Ervin and she shuffled over quickly.

"I'll need you to clear out, then."

"Why?"

"Because, I won't take away his modesty by letting you lot watch me undress him."

"You will remember that this man callously murdered a teenage girl he may or may not have hired to engage in lewd sexual activity…"

John took a hearty snort, and when all eyes turned to him he chuckled. "Sorry… it's just that I hardly ever hear you say the word 'sex'."

"I didn't say 'sex', John, I said 'sexual'." Sherlock replied icily, and John erupted into another snort, this one sounding a bit painful.

Molly was clearly fighting back a smile, but she strove to call Sherlock's attention back to her. "I work by a code, all are equal in death, and they have a claim to equal respect."

"A code."

"Well, it's more of a personal code, really," Molly allowed begrudgingly. "But I take it seriously."

"This has never been a problem-"

"For cryin' out loud, Sherlock!" Louisa said crossly. "You can't examine him in the act of being undressed anyway, so what does it matter? Stop wasting time and clear out; we'll go too. All the cool kids are doing it." He lifted his brows at her. "Don't ya want to be cool, Sherlock?"

"I'll stay, thank you," his head swiveled forward imperiously.

"It'll hardly go any faster if you watch."

"It might,"

"What are you, some kind of per-" John hemmed once, sensing the storm.

"Sherlock," he said gruffly. "I'll give you a cigarette."

Sherlock's eyes slid into John's as though they were the only two in the room, reminding the doctor of a child prepared to be bribed into an unwanted nap for the right sweetie.

"You haven't got any," he challenged, and Watson immediately responded by pulling what looked like nothing more than a ball of aluminium wrap from his pocket. As he worked the ball open, Louisa spotted two cigarettes cradled within.

"I never know when I might need to encourage you,"

"Clever disguise," Holmes remarked, looking impressed with John for the second time that afternoon. He held out his hand and Watson began to back away slowly, waving the sheet out in front of him like it was bait for a crocodile. Sherlock followed with his shoulders held tight, probably hoping to preserve the dignity that had abandoned him the moment he started walking.

John waited until Sherlock was safely out of doors before he drew one of the cigarettes from the foil and held it out to the detective, who plucked it from his fingers greedily.

"Come on, lighter," he grumbled harshly, hand gesticulating with the demand. John nearly fumbled the thing in his haste, and once Sherlock had it he flicked it, lit the end of his beloved, and took a long, passionate drag. He exhaled a column of smoke upwards into the air, a look of relaxation spreading over his face that was so dramatic and immediate he might have actually taken a hit from a choice spliff.

Sherlock peered at John after a moment as he tapped the butt of the cigarette, knocking off nonexistent ash. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Watson. I was doing well."

"I saw you nip downstairs near twelve last night, Sherlock." John returned affably. "Do we have to pay off the stores again?"

"You won't be able to; seems no one can resist selling to a dead man revived." Sherlock shrugged as Louisa, who'd only been half-listening with little interest, lifted her eyes from the pavement she was idly kicking. "I've already warned them that you'll try."

Doctor Watson and Holmes began to bicker from there, and it became transparent that they wouldn't touch upon Sherlock's comment again. Louisa wondered, though… Dead man revived, what did _that_ mean? She wanted to ask, but that would have meant interrupting; in which case Sherlock would never consent to actually _answering_ her question.

She was thankful when, once Sherlock had finished smoking; they all seemed to want to be back indoors. They only waited a short time in the corridor for Molly to crack open the door and permit them back into the lab.

Looking over a naked Iskandar Ervin was almost as quickly done as looking over his clothes had been. Watson was finished before anyone else, stepping away from the body with a puzzled and dissatisfied expression as Holmes remained bent at the waist, muttering about signs of captivity.

Without his clothes, Ervin was as horrifying a sight as he probably should have been initially to Louisa; she knew about the stages of rigor mortis, of livor mortis – had a smattering of facts held in her brain as to the effects of the latter on the human body – but seeing it in flesh and reality was obscene. Ervin was only exposed to her from the belly button down, but the discoloration of his skin was something disgusting to behold. Bright blue, and yet terribly red. The entire front of his body, chest to navel, was that horrible purple.

Before she could swim too far down the channel of morbidity, Sherlock called her attention back into their surroundings. "You alluded to possessing a certain grasp on the stages of hypostasis," he stated, and it was a few awkward moments before Louisa realised he was waiting for affirmation.

"A small, _limited_ grasp."

"What does the appearance of hypostasis in this body tell you?"

"That he was continuously positioned on his back, though he was moved at least once before lividity was fixed. You can tell by the disturbance in what is otherwise an evenly distributed discoloration," she pointed to a streak of paleness through all the purple, near the right external oblique. "We know he had to have been moved twice, though: once into the room they cleaned his body in, again to the vehicle they drove to leave him on the A1. Also," she pressed a finger to Ervin's left pectoral. The skin beneath her touch lightened by a fraction, but the moment she took her finger away the blood seeped back into place. "pressure put upon areas of lividity still produces a very faint blanching in colour. Normally this would tell us he's not been dead more than eight, nine hours, but common sense says he must have been out on that road for at least six. So, you were probably right, about the body being cleaned in a room kept very cold. Either that, or he was killed around three this morning, which seems very unlikely."

"I was definitely right," Was all Holmes said, before peeling off his gloves.

"Is that all then?" Louisa questioned, unable to believe it.

Instead of responding to her question Holmes snapped, "Hardly anything here, when you really look at it." Frustration clenched his jaw. "We could know all there is to know about the method, the motivation, but the most imperative secrets still remain."

He tossed the gloves onto the cart that had previously held his coat. His manner had become incredibly irate in such a short period of time that Louisa felt befuddled.

"Isn't there more to look at?" She repeated.

"He's clean; the rest can be handled by someone else, I don't care." Sherlock made as though to reach into the pocket of the coat he wasn't wearing, but before he could even suffer the subsequent agitation Molly Hooper was at his side with the Belstaff draped over her arm.

For a moment Sherlock appeared a little surprised, but then he seemed to grow calmer as Hooper grinned up at him in that timid way she had.

"Thank you," he said softly, and the moment was so out-of-character with everything she'd seen from Holmes so far, that Louisa knew she would think of it again later on.

"No trouble," Molly returned, tone equally soft.

Once outside they walked a ways to where the cab was stationed, still waiting to conclude its transport of John, Louisa and Sherlock. They grouped into the backseat the same way they had twice before – with Louisa in the middle; this happened because Sherlock always jumped in first, and John always wanted Louisa to go next as befitting his status as a Gentleman of London. Or, at least Louisa assumed Watson's motives were pure. There was always the chance he simply wanted to avoid the discomfort of the middle seat himself.

"Baker Street, please." Sherlock said to the driver.

"You're not going to drop me first?" Louisa cried. The paradox she was currently living in involved her hatred of being stifled between two bodies (Holmes and Watson) in a closed space, and the hatred of being alone in a cab (even if this driver did happen to be of the chummy variety). At that moment, evidently, Louisa had made up her mind that the former was a more preferable state.

"Why would I do that," Holmes drawled carelessly. "When that would mean tacking on another twenty-three minutes to my ride?"

"Oh, well when you put it that way," she scowled, folding her arms over her chest. She shimmied her shoulders into the seat with a huff, and in that position she remained until the car rolled smoothly next to the kerb beyond the front step of 221.

Sherlock made to exit the car without another word, but John stopped him. "I think I'll head to Mary's," he said.

"Isn't she working?"

"Yeah, but she'll be done in a couple of hours. I'd be heading over there soon anyway, I reckon since I'm already in the cab…"

"Can't argue with logic, can you?" Sherlock's mouth tilted in a half smile, and with that he'd gone.

"We can go round to yours first," John told Louisa, who's gaze lingered for a moment through the window of the door Sherlock shut behind him (she was thinking there'd been something quite sad in that half-smile of his) before turning to the doctor. "I've got some time to kill."

"I appreciate it," She said, smiling. She gave the driver her address and as the car began to move once more a silence settled. Intermittently Louisa poked furtive glances in John's direction until he finally felt them and looked over at her, a sanguine note softening his features.

"You're in a good mood," she observed.

"Yeah," John chuckled. "I am. It's been a while since I was out like this… I suppose I missed it more than I thought I had."

"Working with Sherlock – is that what you do for a living?" She'd heard him mention having an office once or twice before, but she found people tended to say more when editing preconceived notions.

"No, I've been running my own practice for a little over a year now." John said. "Well, it's not just my practice, my girlfriend and I started it together. And, to be honest, she does most of the maintaining."

"How did you two meet?"

"I was working with a small office – one of the doctors had a child and decided to dedicate her time to raising him. Mary came with all the necessary qualifications, and it only took perhaps… I dunno, two weeks? A fortnight, at most, to fall madly for her. We clicked so well together that starting our own practice seemed like the only rational thing to do."

The fondness in his tone was so evident that Louisa's smile grew.

"What about you and Sherlock?" John questioned now.

"You already know how we met," Louisa reminded him. "He made my best friend cry."

"Yes, I remember. I meant, how is it you two came to know each other so well?"

"I wouldn't say we know each other well," Louisa began. "I think he just… wonders about me; at least, that's what I gather from what he's said. He's curious, and I allow him to be because, to be honest, this is all so interesting. I'm sure I don't need to tell you the appeal of hanging around a man like Sherlock Holmes."

"No, I understand that bit." John paused, apparently reflecting before he went on. "I only… It's just – the fact that you're here means something."

"Well, I have no idea what that could be," Louisa answered honestly, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden.

John seemed to sense her budding discomfort, if his following words were any indication. "I'm not sorry that you came along today, really. In fact, you appear to have been helpful. I only meant that Sherlock doesn't just take to people, he never has. Aside from his blood relatives there are four people in the world who can say they get on well with him, and in all the years I've known him, he's not made a single new acquaintance."

 _Can't forget about Irene Adler_ , John's thoughts dutifully reminded him, but Adler's shaky… relationship? with Sherlock was irrelevant to the point he was so far failing to make.

"What I'm _trying_ to say," he laughed airily at himself. "Is that this sort of thing – allowing someone to come along on a case – has _never_ happened. He's banished more people from his company than I can count, so I wonder how this… developed." He finished lamely, but Louisa was looking at him very intently.

"Your concern for him runs deep," she said. "You take quite an active role in his life."

John smiled tightly, aware of how he must have been coming across to such a young girl. "He's been through a lot. I apologise if I'm overstepping-"

"Why should you?" Louisa interrupted seriously. "Never apologise for being a good friend, John. I actually find it admirable, the way you watch out for him."

"I wouldn't say I'm watching out for him in this instance," John amended, choosing his words carefully. "It's not as though I think his getting to know you will bring about any negative ramifications; it's more that I'm trying to get a proper read on his current state of mind. He hasn't been himself lately. I'm not insinuating you're a threat," John repeated earnestly. "but with Sherlock's track record, unusual behaviour is not a good sign."

"Actually, I think I know what you mean. He seems off to me as well, but I really couldn't say how, as we truly don't know each other at all." She pulled her coat from her shoulders, the heat from the car's ventilation bringing her closer to sweating. "We've had nothing more than a series of conversations, and the majority of each one has centred on this case, on Antoine's case. He needed my help that night I came to your flat, needed me to put a name to Ervin so that we could have some hope of finding him, and I suppose that, through being thrown together so often, he just got used to me.

"He understands how interested I am in seeing how this case pans out, in learning from him in general, and I think he wants to see how far my ability to contribute anything towards solving it reaches, so I doubt that this aspect of his behaviour is something that should concern you. One thing I take as hard fact is that curiosity is Sherlock's bread and butter."

"It sounds as though you believe there's another aspect I should be worried about," John said.

"Yes, but again, I couldn't tell you what that is… I just have a feeling that he's missing something, like a single candle amongst many has been blown out in his head." John's lips pulled into a frown so deep that Louisa patted the hand which rested on the seat next to him soothingly. "Don't stress yourself, John. Anyone can tell that Sherlock is a far cry from an average sort of lad, but I haven't seen anything particularly rash or reckless in his manner. He just needs stimulation, I think." After pondering for a few beats she added, "And a healthier, more regular diet."

John eyed her, suddenly looking very analytical. "You keep saying you don't know him all that well, but you've collected a fair bit of insight."

Louisa smiled again, her eyes fixing upon the window past John's head. "I grew up with someone very much like him."

"Who was that?" John asked, finding that her smile was infectious.

"My father. In many ways they could be the exact same person. But Sherlock is smarter, my father is warmer, and they look nothing alike." She sighed deeply. "They're both insanely introverted, brilliant, and live with a destructive hero complex. One could say that navigating my father's moods gave me practice."

The conversation lasted until the cab stopped in front of 133 Pelcourt Street, and it was such a pleasant experience that Louisa was quite sad to see it finished. John asked about her studies, he asked about her opinion of London, and he did so with such interest that Louisa was sure she could feel the friendship being forged as she was carried home. Before getting out of the car Louisa forced the driver to take a twenty pound tip, insisted that he keep her book of Sudoku puzzles, and wished him a good night. The parting with John was just as amicable; they even shook hands.

The moment she let herself into her flat Louisa brewed a strong Earl Grey and went to the sitting room floor to surround herself in a ring of school texts, working feverishly. She didn't finish until after ten, but she couldn't hold Holmes accountable for that; concentrating for longer than fifteen minutes at a time was apparently an impossibility, making progress slow and murky as her mind.

As she climbed between her sheets – the clock reading near eleven by the time she'd cleared the mess in front of the sofa and showered – she decided that she wasn't at all sorry for her spastic attention span; her brain was buzzing from all the excitement of the day, a sensation she hadn't experienced for a painfully long time.

She was glad she had gone, and as she drifted off to sleep she hoped Sherlock would bring her along again.

* * *

 _ **Author`s Note:**_ I`d initially intended to post this chapter on Tuesday, following the pattern of my previous two updates; but, editing this one turned out to be more complicated than I thought it would be, and I`m pretty sure I still missed a few spelling errors or mistakes.

Other than that though, I`m pretty satisfied with how the story is flowing as of yet; the only thing I remain uncertain about is whether the mystery aspect is intriguing. Just, let me know if it`s any good. I`d like to hear it :)

Thanks,

Emily


	10. When in Doubt, Force Your Friendship

**As the Starling Says** ** Volume Two**

 **Chapter Three**

* * *

It was an unremarkable place; so much so that Louisa had to wilfully keep from being disheartened, choosing instead to think of the building as elegant, and unassuming.

Like most privately-owned shops in this area of London, Gamble & Peele Dry-Cleaning was topped by two floors of brick walls with boring windows punched through in pairs. The bricks had a faded look to them, like they had been covered by a fine white powder that would wash away with the next autumn shower; an effect that was probably done on purpose. If this was an ordinary shop, perhaps these floors where were people would live – either renters or the owners. Hopefully, however, this wasn't an ordinary place.

The shop itself was panelled in clapboard sliding painted a dark, slate-blue, with trim of soft grey. At perhaps seven metres wide the face was primarily occupied by two great windows on either side of the entrance, giving full view to the activity (or lack thereof) inside. Above the shop windows and the door there was a strip of off-white frieze blended over the trim, and above that a matte black sign telling its name in some variant of Courier font. Underneath the windows were inkberry hedges trimmed to perfection, which demanded for a moment to be admired.

Though it was a nicely kept and decorated establishment, it was merely that compared to the buildings on either side of it; it was nice, but its competitors were splendid. To the left of Gamble and Peele's there was a vegetarian restaurant and to the right an urban accessory shop (which somehow found the excuse to cram in a triad of pastel-hued electric mixers on a stand between two austere-looking mannequins posed in the displays). Both the restaurant and the shop were elaborate enough to draw the eye instinctually away from the cleaner's; and perhaps only one out of every twenty people who passed seemed to need their services, wanting more to either eat or shop, or continue their journeys.

Louisa walked across the street from the spot she'd been standing these past ten minutes, and went inside without another thought; she didn't want to think she was wasting her time, or she'd probably stand on that spot on the pavement for the rest of the evening.

A little bell clanged over the glass door as Louisa pushed it open, and she was greeted by the artificial smell of cedar; it was cloying and reminded her of Sherlock. She focused her attention first to the back wall, which was slotted with thin shelves of some light wood, housing folded shirts of all shades; this wall blocked from view the room in which the clothes were probably kept and treated, and before it there was a long counter of the same wood, where a rather short Italian man was waiting for her approach.

He was completely bald at the very top of his head, but round the back and over his ears he possessed a mop of curls so thick it was a wonder to Louisa to see how specific baldness could be. His nose was bulbous and his forearms were thick underneath the folded cuffs of a grey shirt, but the first thought his smile inspired in Louisa's head was sincerity.

"Hello," she reached her hand across the counter (all the while wondering if such a gesture was ridiculous; she never knew when to shake hands and when _not_ to, it seemed, despite her father's many lessons). "I'm Adelaide."

"Benicio – but you'll call me Benny," the man took her hand without puzzlement, so Louisa felt a bit better. "What can I do for you today, miss?"

"Well, I was coming from Howard's down the street when I saw your place here, and I just really love the look of it," she explained, turning on her charisma to its highest. Men like Benny typically appreciated women who smiled a lot. "I've got this place I go to regularly for my clothes and such, but they just don't know how to keep a neat place. Only problem is, nowhere else is close enough, aside from you. But I doubt I could afford your prices…"

"You wouldn't happen to be talking about Clean Cloud, would ya?"

"Yep, Clean Cloud, the very same," she nodded. "If you know the place, you must know what I mean."

"I certainly do," Benny agreed, apparently, with his whole heart. "And I'll tell you what's more, we don't charge much higher than Clean Cloud. 'S a little more expensive, sure, but we use the better supplies, and I can personally assure you our customer service is the best you'll find anywhere. We even deliver."

Louisa, who had not stopped smiling, simply smiled harder to keep her disappointment from showing. Anyone could come here.

But, that meant very little, her mind quickly reasoned; it was on a public street, it had keep a public patronage, otherwise suspicion would immediately be garnered.

"How much more expensive are we talking?"

For ten minutes Louisa found herself swallowed into the vortex of dry-cleaning and delivery rates, of special membership perks and weekend deals on duvets; and then, when any normal person would have taken a pamphlet or a card and vacated as quickly as possible, Louisa was swallowed into an equally long conversation about the man's holiday plans.

This was a problem Louisa was commonly faced with, and often, she led herself to it. She could never navigate quick exits from conversations with people who genuinely loved small-talk, as this energetic Benny seemed to; it was the sort of issue that kept her at certain tables during a shift at the Red Light, whilst her other guests looked on with growing impatience for the extra dressing Louisa had promised them.

Now she tapped her foot, as Benny bravely recounted the traumatising experience of Christmas fourteen years ago, when his grandmother had passed away over her beef and parsnip pudding.

"You think you're prepared for your loved ones to go, especially once you're a man… but…" his eyes were as round and doleful as a hound's. "You never really are."

"I'm sorry to hear that; but I'm sure you'll have a lovely Christmas with your family this year." Louisa said, turning to leave at last, now that she could stand it no longer.

"I'd love to agree with you there, miss," Benny replied mournfully, apparently missing the rotation of Louisa's body. She sighed silently through her nostrils and faced him once again (only halfway of course). "But I never found the right woman, haven't got any kids. I'll see my little nephews, but sometimes that can make it worse on a bachelor such as myself."

For a moment Louisa was taken in. "Don't worry," She said consolingly. "Happiness is only a matter of perspective." Benny's brow crinkled, but Louisa was unsurprised, as this expression often popped up on faces of people to whom Louisa tried to give advice; she wasn't the most uplifting character, she was well aware. But what good was a promise to Benny, for instance, that he should find his perfect bride someday, when that might not be true? In her earnest belief, a person should hear only what is actually helpful. Still, with his confusion the mood was lifted, and she was able to smile as she said, "You'll be seeing me again, sir."

She cast one last look around the building as she left, ignoring the mournful sigh from Benny at having been left alone after the renewal of his grief; the bell signalled her exit. Once outside Louisa moved a little to the left and farther from the kerb, both to keep out of way of walking bodies and Benny's view. She placed her hands on her hips and tilted her head back to look at those plain windows above the store, pressed into the brick. They were blinded, no way to see through, but even if there had been she could only hope to glimpse the ceilings of the rooms they gave view to.

If Sherlock had gone inside, she knew, he would have learned everything he needed to know within thirty seconds; he would have marched straight out of there, too, with no unreasonable feelings of conversational obligation. Part of her had wanted to try getting hold of him, to tell him of her suspicions about Gamble and Peele's, but in her moment of quick decision she couldn't stand the thought of having him arrive if she was wrong.

This, is what happened:

After finishing her lunch shift at the Red Light Louisa had made plans with Mel to visit the library at Goldsmiths. Louisa didn't like the library Mel wanted to go to very much, uncomfortable with how much white, empty space the walls seemed to echo with (modern style – in interior design, at least – did not suit her ability to focus, ironically enough, as it called her mind to ponder ways in which all that negative space could be filled in), but she still went at least once a week. As a little girl Louisa had always imagined herself studying intently in the library at her university, and that is what she was going to do. She only shared one class with Melissa, who was a junior; as an elective Louisa had chosen second-tier history (global) so she would have at least one subject on her schedule she could consider light fun, and since the two had become friends Mel had lost all ability to study for the class without Louisa's help.

They would have travelled together, as they both finished their shifts at the same time, and they were both going to the same place, but Louisa wanted to stop by the grocery for fresh pens to keep in her apron (and the type of pen she liked best could only be bought at the grocery near the Strand). As she pedalled through her route her eyes - when not watching her path like a hawk - casually flitted over every street sign she passed, solidifying her mental catalogue of avenues and streets and roads and crossings. On the cross section of Russell and Catherine Louisa braked, suddenly enough that she was in danger of flipping forwards onto the street. A woman in a cinched coat gasped as Louisa halted right next to her, hand fluttering to her chest as she backed away.

"Sorry," Louisa said, hardly bothering to look at the woman, who promptly faded from reality.

 _There's a cocktail bar near Catherine Street._

A cocktail bar near Catherine Street.

She decided that she had to find it.

Without further thought than that she swept her route through the rest of Russell Street, this time with her eyes fixed on the buildings by which she whizzed almost gracefully. She hooked onto Tavistock Street and repeated the general scan, doing the same with a hook through Kean Street (a strand of space mostly occupied by houses) straight to Wild, onto Great Queen – back the other way to Long Acre; she passed through Bow Street only as a way to circle back, knowing no place looking for any degree of secrecy would set up camp on that of all places. This time she turned left back onto Russell, decided to take a peek around Drury Lane.

That last paragraph takes perhaps thirty seconds on paper, but flying through her route swallowed up nearly an hour, considering she repeated the course twice over. Midway through it all, shortly before she took her final turn down Drury, her phone began to buzz in her pocket, but she didn't want to stop to answer it, not when she was looking.

She passed more than one exclusive-looking lounge, dozens of bars and all kinds of places where moderately important people like to collect, schmooz (or "network" as these same people will insist that it's called) and drink, but none of them struck her in any sort of way. She even tried alleys for secret doors… and then, after that, nearing the end of her third circle, she realised something: the place she was looking for… It would never declare itself. It would be hidden in an area like this, where so many normal people passed through every day. And yet, this staggering idea hadn't even occurred to her until this moment, after three circuits through a wide route.

Feeling sweaty and slightly hopeless of victory, Louisa suddenly stopped on Drury, and walked her bike to the first place she saw where she could get water.

It was a delicatessen called Howards, with an outdoor dining area that was closed off with a scrollwork iron fence. Louisa leaned her bike against the fence and went inside, delighted by the scent of pastry which instantly greeted her. This place admittedly made her feel better, as susceptible to environments as she was. It helped that the woman who came from a room in the back was as kind and matronly as one would expect to find in a country town (and possessed the name which inspired the alias Louisa had given to Benny at Gamble and Peele's), and within a short exchange of sentences Louisa was talked into the additional purchase of a croissant.

Louisa took her water and her croissant outside, sitting at the table directly in front of the shop window, facing the street. She kept her eyes closed as she ate, chewing slowly; almost, in fact, with the rhythm of her thoughts.

This sensation was like coming against a roadblock. She knew what her destination was – Where is it Hiding – but she literally could not begin to trudge along the route to get to it. How the hell was she supposed to know where it was hiding? That seemed to be the only question she could ask herself. How was she supposed to know?

 _Questions, questions, questions. Think of more bloody questions, don't be an idiot._

She knew three things only: The cocktail bar would not admit that it was a cocktail bar; seedy people would own it; its business was illegal. That was all, she didn't have any clue as to what its front could be. On television, the fronts were always obvious things, but _many things were obvious_. This delicatessen was obvious, and it was in such plain sight that no-one would ever suspect a prostitution ring was circulating underneath it (for she also imagined that the place would have to be underground, beneath the pretend-business, but anyone could have said that), yet did that mean Louisa believed Howard's was a ruse? _No_.

" _Ask yourself questions; stop thinking in bullet points."_

For heaven's sake, she _knew_ that already! It was in no way helpful to hear his voice echo over the agitated stream of her thoughts. His advice was what she'd been trying to take since she'd made the spur decision to look for this cursed cocktail bar.

Louisa realised she was getting angry as she heard her heavy breathing, realised she was chewing her latest bite of croissant with enough feeling to suggest it had personally flayed her entire tribe. She stilled, counted to three, swallowed the pastry, and pushed her plate away, across the tiny table. She closed her eyes and stacked her elbows on its surface, her face falling forwards so that her temples rested against her hands; even with herself her temper could be unforgiving.

A minute or two passed, during which Louisa reclaimed her patience, told herself to try again.

So, what did she know? Already answered that one – on to the follow-ups…

What _sort_ of public place would it be?

She tried a handful of answers; a café, a grocery, a launderette – obvious places she went to herself many times a month…

New question… something to narrow it down.

Would it be a busy place? Clearly not; so not any sort of market, with waves of people constantly flowing through the doors – same for café, probably…

Would it be nice? Would it be average? She expected that the front (whatever it was) would have to keep to the standards of the surrounding buildings, but that didn't necessarily mean it would be particularly elegant, either. Sort of an unhelpful question, for now at least.

What sort of hours would it keep? Well, if the true location she was looking for called itself a cocktail bar, its business was conducted by moonlight. Which meant its façade most likely took the day, closing early.

That ruled out a launderette, as they were typically expected to stay open till the wee hours. Moreover, a launderette was somewhere people lingered, which seemed like a prospect any criminal worth his salt would shy away from; even if the cocktail bar wasn't active during the front's hours of operation, the very nature of the crime (involving, from the looks of things, at least some rudimentary form of paedophilia) would _have_ to warrant all precautions to be tended to, especially if it was so vulnerable regarding location.

What would be ideal? A small shop, very little access to the entirety of the building, selling a product or offering a service that could be handled with as efficient a transaction as possible. Little time for people to even need the toilet, so it probably didn't have one. It would need to be straightforward, the sort of place where people came with their goals already planned.

What _product_ would be ideal? Food, perhaps. A baker's shop with a nice counter and window, a short-order kind of set-up. But food could bring renown… so would candle shops and novelty corners, which would bring in droves of tourists or bored, ironic teenagers. Sure, the place obviously wanted to be lucrative, but did it want its information constantly displayed on Yelp? The place would do better to avoid the realm of anything consumer-related, unless they purposely wanted to strive for underwhelming products.

Service, then, had to be.

It was a small triumph (one which some might consider to not be a triumph at all) but still it brought a flush of exhilaration to her cheeks. This, she could work with. There could only be so many services in the perimeter she'd laid out. If she wanted, she could get back on her bike this instant and start again on her route, going slower this time, stopping at each relevant building she laid eyes on (which _really_ couldn't have been that many, right?)

But, she could also keep going with her thoughts; wouldn't it be better to see if she could narrow down the results even further? In her mind, she conjured a list of every service she could think of, using images of the buildings she'd just passed to cross-reference. Each and every building she paid attention to, she could remember. It was one of her talents. All she had to do was focus her mind onto absorbing details and she could pull them up again as easily as though searching for them on Google. It was practically the only reason Louisa had ever been able to take on the amount of coursework she had throughout her scholastic career, the only reason she'd been able to take them at such advanced levels.

Never before had she actually been truly proud of her ability, but for this moment. She was calling the images to mind in the same way she always had, but it was still up to her to make sense of them, sort them where they needed to go, and she did; it was different from simply remembering a relevant line of text in some book and filling in a test question with it; _that_ was effortless.

All it took was a few well-asked questions, and those weren't so difficult to come up with, after she'd had been through some practicing. At the root of it all she was meant to be looking for a place with a good excuse for keeping at least half their building tapered from view of normal passers-by (to cut down on risks to vulnerable areas that might lead to the truth of what the business was hiding), it would have to be speedy, it would have to be clean, and simple.

There were more questions which could be (and were) posed in all kinds of different ways, and at the end Louisa had decided two places would have been most ideal.

The first was a mechanic's garage, for obvious reasons, but a mechanic's garage was not a place a swanky executive man would want to duck under for a good time. There would be no dignity in _that_ , and with an aim for a clientele with more self-absorption than sense, the business would have failed long ago. Beyond that, there were no mechanic's shops in the areas she'd been through, and she'd given Catherine Street a wide berth in her route.

But, there was a dry-cleaner's, she'd seen it on this very lane; she could see Gamble and Peele's _even then,_ such a short way down the street from where she sat at Howard's, that it was actually quite funny; she was currently staring at it with a mouth hanging open. Leaving everything behind, with no single thought, Louisa stood, and went to the gate which sequestered the seating area she'd been occupying alone.

It was a beautiful moment – that exact sentence when the answer clicked in to place in her mind – it even came with a sound, that cannot be described on paper. It left her with no room to doubt herself; she'd thought it all out, Gamble and Peele's was the place she was meant to find, and as her legs carried her down the footpath she was only marvelling that she hadn't known all along.

It wasn't until she was standing directly across the street from the place that she took a second thought; she would have called Sherlock in the next moment, sure that he could take a glance and tell her if she was right – save her the frustration at working hard just to figure out she'd been wrong – but this small voice in her head said that if she didn't go in now, and find out for herself, she would never feel the full extent of the victory; it would not be completely hers, if she allowed another's perspective to make the decision for her. Besides, it had been almost two full days since she'd seen him out of the taxi at Baker Street, and she'd heard nothing from him since; the prospect of phoning him now, even of sending him a text, was much too awkward to contemplate for long.

Now, that radiant feeling of mental precision was all but dissipated as she stood outside the cleaner's, having been practically chased out of the place by Benicio's civilities. Now, she consoled herself with the thought that there were other dry-cleaning establishments along the route she'd pedalled earlier; though this one had seemed the most promising – though the very image pulled up in her head of this place had been the last stroke of the hammer to nail her suppositions home – it had somewhat disappointed her regarding how well it fit the bill.

But then, would she find anything more in any other shop she went to? She could _feel_ Gamble and Peele's was the place, which meant she could then easily decide that some other nameless shop was that which she'd been searching for, but how would she be able to tell for certain? Where would she look for signs? She certainly hadn't known how to do that when she went inside and chatted with Benny. Perhaps she wouldn't find the place simply because she was inept.

 _At the very least, you can let him know of your suspicions_ , she imagined trying to call Sherlock, inwardly cringed. _Even if you can't tell, he can. Maybe he'll even show you how he does it._

She pulled her mobile from her pocket, and for a long moment she simply held it so that she could stare at the screen. When the minute turned from thirty-six to thirty-seven, she finally unlocked the thing; instead of phoning Sherlock, however (who probably wouldn't have answered anyway, unless John was around to answer for him), she put in Mel's number, decided that she ought to at least smooth that little bramble in the sand.

She picked up before the first ring was even through.

"D'you know how worried I've been? Tell me you're injured, tell me you've been robbed." Louisa grimaced in a painful expression. "Tell me some story that will explain why you just blew me off!"

"Are you angry with me?" Louisa asked. It was a stupid question; she knew Melissa was angry with her, but sometimes her instinct was simply to stall.

"A little warning would have been nice," The frustrated note was not at all supressed from Mel's tone. "Cancelling plans is fine, but that requires that you actually contact the person you've got plans with to let them know, so they don't sit at the sodding library for an hour, waiting like a moron."

"I had to seize an opportunity," Louisa replied, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

"…I'm waiting for you to elaborate."

"It's a bit of a long traipse, Mel," Louisa said, rushing to finish as she heard the sigh billow from her friend's mouth, blowing static in her ear. " _Not_ a story that I mind telling; it's just a warning."

"I've got the time. You know… since I'm not studying."

"You could study without me. You've done it before."

"Onto the explanation!" Mel deflected quickly, leaving Louisa to smirk knowingly at her procrastination.

"You remember that girl who was killed, Kaleigh Carlton?"

"Anna's friend?" Mel chuckled drily. "Of course I remember; she's the reason Maggie's been flopping out on me as well."

"You hear just how self-centred you sound at the moment, yes?"

There was a pause. "Yeah that was bad, you got me. I take it back, alright? So, what's Kaleigh got to do with your opportunity?"

"Did Maggie ever tell you what happened on Sunday morning?" Louisa asked, stalling a direct reply.

"No, as I said, I've barely _seen_ her," Mel returned testily. "What happened Sunday?"

"We sat down with Maggie and her sister, sort of as an unofficial interview, because we were positive that she knew something. We already knew who killed Kaleigh, but we knew nothing about the nature of the relationship they shared-"

"Well, hang on, Lou," Mel broke in. "Who's 'we'?"

"Sorry?"

"You keep saying 'we'; 'we sat down with Maggie and her sister', ' _we_ were positive' and so on and so forth."

"Oh, I'm talking about Mr Holmes," Louisa shook her head impatiently.

"Am I supposed to know who that is?"

Louisa paused, thinking for a moment Mel might be joking. "Actually, yes, Mel you should know. How is it that we've talked about this man twice and you still can't remember his name? Maggie's met him three times now and I promise you, next time I bring him up, she'll have forgotten all over again."

"Please, don't start with your lecturing, Lou, not now. Just tell me who he is."

"I met him at the restaurant, he was the man who made Maggie cry over the filet and the water glass… He's a detective, he's been on Kaleigh Carlton's case from the night she died. He was, in fact, the only person who figured out that Kaleigh had been murdered in the first place."

"I _do_ know him," Mel said, a smile in her voice. "This is the bloke you screamed at, isn't he?"

"I didn't scream at him," Louisa shut her eyes, fighting off the blush that was as baffling as it was strong; it had been nearly two months since that initial encounter, and still the embarrassment was as fresh as though it had been yesterday; she really preferred not to think of it. "Anyway, I was with him, we talked to Anna."

"Why did _you_ talk to Anna?"

"Sherlock needed my help; Anna didn't want to talk to him initially, she's been too scared to tell anyone anything. Now that Izzy's dead I reckon she's safe, but the fear, mixed with the fact that Sherlock didn't make the best impression with her mother – or something like that, I'm not exactly clear on the details – made her want to avoid him. He knew that I'm close with Maggie… he and I were already acquainted by then, so he had me arrange a meeting."

"But you sat and spoke with her?"

"Yes,"

"Is Sherlock some sort of detective?"

"He is,"

"And you sat _with_ him and _talked_ with Anna?"

"Is your intention to get under my skin right now?" Louisa snapped, feeling very far away from the story she'd initially called to tell.

"No, I'm just… confused," Louisa responded by rolling her eyes. She was going to have to explain herself to every minute detail, it appeared. Mel went on, oblivious to the mild frustration. "You've not really answered my question, have you? _Why_ were you talking to Anna? I'm assuming you were asking questions about the murder, but why would you do that? Why are you involved?"

"I… can't explain it, Mel. You'd have to be in my head with me, and if there's a way to make that happen, I haven't figured it out yet." Louisa sighed; the frustration was aimed at herself alone, for being unable, once again, to bring up the proper words. She could _see_ her motivation; she could visualise what she wanted in her head, what she was getting out of these small adventures with Holmes and Watson. But to try and make Mel see it as well would have been the same as trying to explain crisp, drying warmth to a being who'd always lived underwater; the basic concept of warmth is there, it's mutually understood, but the line which splits summer sunlight from hot water is somehow bold, and completely unconquerable. Unfortunately, it was a question people would want to know the answer for.

"Are you interested in joining the police?" Mel asked, and from her tone Louisa could tell she hardly believed it even as the words left her mouth.

"No, I'm not, Mel. My plans haven't changed, nothing's changed. I just want to solve this case."

"Okay, you're solving a case? I thought you said the man who killed Kaleigh was dead."

"He is; the case is trying to figure out who killed him, and why. It all ties in to the same thing."

"So… why did he kill Kaleigh?"

"Once all is settled I'll tell you everything, I promise. But I'm afraid to talk about it too much just now. I'm not even supposed to know half the things I know; I only wanted to call and apologise for standing you up." Louisa heard Mel's intake of air, so she hurtled through her remaining sentences before the girl could cut her off again. "We got a small tip from Anna about the last place Ervin might have taken Kaleigh before he killed her; I was riding past the street that she mentioned and I saw it… and I knew I could find it."

"Did you find it?"

Louisa smiled, but there was no victory in it; she only smiled because Mel's question seemed like a subtle acceptance of sorts – implying ' _I don't understand you at all, but hey, your hobbies are your hobbies,'_.

"I think I might have… I can't say for sure, and yet I can." Louisa massaged the front of her forehead for a moment with the tips of her fingers, feeling a headache coming on. "My brain is not fully on my side, it would seem."

"Well, I wish you luck."

"Are you angry with me still?" Louisa asked. "I know I'm a bad date."

"You are an atrocious date, yes. I'm not angry though. Or I won't be, if you'll let me come around to yours tomorrow so we can study."

Louisa opened her mouth, and after a few moments, shut it.

"Hello?" Mel said. "Have I lost you?"

"We can meet at my place…" Louisa began. "But you're not allowed out of the sitting room."

"What!?" Louisa pulled the phone from her ear at Mel's shriek. "Still!?"

"You can't be surprised," Louisa said decisively, returning her phone. "This rule has been standing since October, and yet every time you want to come over I find myself fighting this same battle with you."

"Friends don't typically try so hard to hurt friend's feelings, Louisa."

"I tell you what, Mel," Louisa cleared her throat. "I'll let you waddle round the kitchen all you want – you can even sit on my bed. _But,_ you must pay for this restoration of your privilege with the necessary funds to replace the blender you decimated."

Silence on the other end. "More than fair in my opinion." Louisa continued, grinning. "I'm willing to let the carpet man, the kettle – all the rest of it go – just make up for the blender. I paid fifty-two pounds for it, if I'm not mistaken… Have you got fifty-two pounds, Mel?"

"I'll stay in the living room," was the sulky reply. "I'll be over at one; we've both got work at four, we can head over together."

With that the conversation was nearly concluded, but Louisa managed to remember something she'd been meaning to bring up.

"Before I forget again, will you see if Larry can still find a place for me at his dinner? In his mind, it's probably very short notice - only a fortnight away, heaven forbid - but who else am I gonna find to celebrate with?"

"He'll probably burst into tears when I bring it up," Mel replied. "Tears of joy, of course."

"Thanks, I'll see you tomorrow"

"See you."

Louisa slid her mobile back into the front pocket of her trousers, looking again towards the sign of Gamble and Peele's, as though it would tell her anything else besides its name. She crossed her arms over her chest and stretched her legs a little, getting comfortable – though she still stood - for another, shorter bout of thinking; she reckoned there might still be things she could look for in the building that she hadn't thought of yet. Could she search the rubbish?

Better yet, _would_ she search the rubbish? The very thought of being caught knee deep in black shiny bags of waste was too humiliating to consider… but then, wouldn't that be the best way to find answers? And, answers were what she wanted, correct?

As casually as she could Louisa turned her back to the alley on the dry-cleaner's left, turning thorough eyes over her surroundings to make sure no one had their attention latched anywhere near her. She backed slowly into the alley (thinking with a small sort of voice, ' _I'm about to paw through garbage')_ , before making a to-hell-with-it decision and turning around fully, black trainers beating almost soundlessly against the wet, dirty pavement. There was a regulation rubbish bin at the very end secured by a locked fence, but the fence was only perhaps three metres high, and adorned with nothing on the top to impede her getting over.

Yet, she'd made it no more than five or six strides down the alley when she stopped short.

It was a window; there was another bloody _window._

A thin thing, rising less than a foot from the ground – a mere slot. The glass was beaded and glazed into a fog between the quarter-panes, but through them a blue light glimmered, pure cerulean, like the ocean in jewelled-form. The light shined on Louisa's smiling face in a cartoonish moment akin to opening a chest of gold doubloons; in this case, perhaps sapphires.

Her breath bated instantly, and then she was moving to the left of the window and crouching. She removed her coat before throwing it loosely over her shoulders and positioning herself into something resembling a lazy downward-facing dog. Quick as a flash she was prostrate in front of the window, tenting her coat over the entire frame as well as her head. It wasn't much of a solution to the problem she was trying to avoid – that of someone seeing her silhouette through the window pane, finding her out; if anyone was looking at the window they'd immediately notice the way it went dark the moment Louisa blocked any light it received with her coat, but at the very least no human shadow would be divined, leaving room for them to think someone had placed some box or sack of rubbish in front of it.

This was how Holmes found her.

* * *

Technically speaking he'd _found_ her much before that, as he'd recognised her bicycle leant idly at the gate of a delicatessen. _Suppose that naivete is still alive and well_ , Sherlock mentally commented, wondering how this could be after all she'd seen so far. Walking closer he saw a single bite-sized bit of croissant left on a plate at one of the tables, and as though he'd been there to witness it Holmes pictured the moment of her epiphany; she'd realised, and then she'd left everything and ventured to her destination. It wasn't difficult to imagine; he was heading to Gamble and Peele's himself, after all.

It wasn't difficult… But it was surprising.

The only question was whether to tell her so.

Sherlock heard her before he saw her, speaking near the opening of the alleyway; as though on instinct he slowed his pace and kept out of her peripheral to snatch what he could of her conversation, seeing that she was on her mobile.

Before long the conversation had ended, however, and just in time Sherlock moved farther away from the street, closer to the inkberry hedges on the right of the dry-cleaner's as Louisa hooked a glance around the street in general. He planned to approach her, of course, but if she spotted him lurking she might spout cryptic nonsense as she had the last time she'd caught him eavesdropping. " _I know floundering when I see it."_

Then, oddly enough, there was also the fact that some might consider Louisa to have "won" this round… she'd gotten here first. He'd known about it first, if he was right about the thought occurring to her while she was at the delicatessen (he'd known since last night to come here), but she'd still made it here before him... And _some_ people might consider that a win.

 _Mycroft would_.

But then, Mycroft was the sort who didn't care if he won by the cheat or by honour. And again, Mycroft was irrelevant.

Once he'd given her enough time he stepped away from the hedges and headed for the alley; he saw her perhaps three-quarters of the way to the end, laying on her belly with her coat flapped over her entire upper body. Her legs, sticking out from beneath her coat in a way that made them look eerily dismembered, fidgeted restlessly as Louisa leant her head in different directions, eyes looking through what could only have been a window.

"I just need a little glimpse through ya," she muttered, voice muffled as it was enveloped in her coat. "Just a peek,"

She was… speaking to the window?

"Why would they leave a window anyone could actually _see_ through?" He asked innocently.

Sherlock had surprised Louisa before, had alarmed her; but no instance had been so entertaining as the one he excited now. She seemed to pop off the ground for a split second, like a cat shocked into a leap, and in one swift movement she'd flopped onto her back, cracking the back of her head against the stone foundation of the dry-cleaner's.

She cursed violently – a fact which surprised him further, as he'd not pegged her as the type for genuine swearing – but otherwise she made no other movement. She stared up at the sky between the tops of Gamble and Peele's and the shop to its left, looking angry, looking as though the world had defeated her. Apparently, she didn't need to see him to know Sherlock was the source of the scare; she'd probably recognised his voice the moment after being terrified by it.

She stayed just like that so long that he considered walking closer, peering down at her to make sure this wasn't some mutation of a vegetative state she'd fallen in (she really hadn't hit her head _that_ hard, but there were anomalies). Then, she spoke. "How lovely to meet you here, Sherlock." She exhaled through her nose in a way which suggested she was not being entirely honest just then. "Are you following me?"

"No," He said, feeling a small smile bloom. "Not technically, anyway."

"So, you did know I was here?"

"I saw your bicycle down the street."

"How did you know it's my bike?"

"I've been to your flat," he replied. "I saw it suspended on a rack from the roof of your terrace. Are you going to get up anytime soon? I dislike talking to you from up here."

"And here I thought you enjoyed looking down on people." Her head turned as she finally gazed up at him.

Sherlock's smile faded. "Just get up," he said, beckoning impatiently. "Quickly now, lots to cover."

As though to annoy him she waited a full twenty seconds before rising, but once she was on her feet, her expression was as neutral as it usually was. "D'you think next time you spot me you might try for a more traditional hello?"

"I can't make that promise, Louisa." He said sombrely. "That entirely depends upon the mood I'm in next time I spot you, which is a variable even I cannot predict."

She gave a breathy chuckle, one which seemed despite her better judgement. She didn't want to encourage him, he supposed.

"I expected to hear from you."

"Hear from me?" He tilted his head. "Why?"

"Well I assume you've not been up to _nothing_ since Sunday, or am I wrong?"

"Might as well have done," He replied, his bitterness loud even to his own ears.

"But you still did something regarding the case…" she went on. "You looked for things, whatever, right?"

"I simply reorganised the relevant data I've collected about the matter."

"And you didn't think I'd like to be a part of that?"

"Should I have?"

"Yes," her eyes widened, and with each second that passed she looked more vexed. "You know how behind I am! I mean, what do I know of Antoine's death? Nothing! You must have been through loads of information that I could use to forward my own train of thought. All it would have taken is a phone call and I'd have been at the door within the quarter-hour. I had an off day, yesterday." She ended with a sulky tone, a sulky glance stabbed into his eyes.

"Am I meant to include you in every aspect of _my_ investigation?"

"Yes."

He faltered, certainly not expecting such a demanding and frank disposition which Louisa was currently exhibiting. Just now, she gave the impression of a person who'd dive from and aeroplane and hit the ground running pell-mell. She, at least, was never slow.

"Explain."

"It's not _your_ investigation anymore, is it? It's ours; we agreed."

"We never agreed that."

"We did, at the hospital. I told you I wanted in. Your words were, 'fair enough' by the end of that conversation, if I'm not mistaken."

He narrowed his eyes, the expression almost dubious. "You've got a convenient memory."

"Do you remember it differently?"

"No, I'm saying that your interpretation of our conversation is convenient."

"Perhaps you might have said that the first time, then," she countered, back to the vexed manner. "Whatever the conversation was, let's settle it now, shall we? Are you going to let me in, or are you going to leave me out in the cold?"

Even then Louisa knew that Sherlock thought her much bolder than she was feeling; in truth, she considered herself exceedingly silly at that moment, a little pathetic. Even then Louisa felt like the annoyingly persistent adolescent neighbour who plagues the focus family of a sitcom. Underneath her mask of righteous indignation was a bespectacled youth who ruined wedding cakes, yeah – broke your telly, sure - literally made you want to pull your hair from its roots - but wanted to be included all the same.

She knew very well that the conversation at the canteen had gone unresolved, fizzling out after Sherlock's misinterpretation behind her proposal of being friends to begin with. But in her mind, she reckoned that she could convince him, somehow, that he needed to have her around, that it had been his idea. Or, at the very least, that he had readily agreed to _her_ idea.

"What exactly do you think I can do for you?" Sherlock asked, after taking time to analyse what was, in his opinion, a riddle. "Are you under the impression that I can take you along every time I go beyond the blue tape? Do you think I can tell you everything?"

"Those are stupid questions, Sherlock," she frowned at him. _I expected more_ , those eyes seemed to expound. " _You_ go beyond the blue tape, _you_ know it all, why can't I?"

"I have a reputation that allows-"

"I imagine you've got a nice reputation, a big, gleaming one – bigger than any badge on any officer's chest." Louisa continued. "I imagine as well that it took quite a long time for you to build that reputation to what it is today; I imagine that process might have gone a lot faster for you if you'd had someone who could help slip you in to the important areas… You can see by now, I hope, that I have a healthy imagination, one which will have already answered any question you can possibly ask. So, perhaps you'll trust me when I say there is no _real_ reason why you should not include me, if I want to be included. I've told you already, I won't get in your way. I'll help you."

"You'll help me." No question, just a statement.

"Will you really try to pretend that I haven't helped you already? Perhaps only in small ways, but I've been useful."

"This is no matter of wheth-"

"Enough now, Sherlock; no more pointless replies. Am I in, or am I out? It really is that simple."

Was she in? Was she out? When Watson had asked about Louisa's presence after they'd all looked over Ervin's corpse in the brush, Sherlock had said then there was no telling how long she'd be around. That hadn't changed, and yet it appeared that her question called for it to change now. What remained unclear was whether she was professing some sort of desire to _be_ what he was. Did she want to – God forbid – follow in his footsteps? In John's? Somehow, he doubted that, though it would have been logical to believe from taking her words and actions – her persistence – at face-value.

Of all the foggy – sometimes subconscious – queries that had warped through his thoughts concerning Miss Daly, this was by far the most confounding: What did she want? What reason had been woven into the universe that brought a twenty-year-old waitress outside this building to speak to him now? What the hell was she doing here? Nothing in her flat had told him these things, she'd given him no clue.

Well, he could only find out one way.

"You're in."

She didn't smile; in fact, her expression became as still as stone. But this, in and of itself, was like concentrated victory.

"Then I'll make you a promise," she flapped her coat once, shaking off non-existent dirt, and folded it over her arm. "You'll never sneak up on me again."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ Hello again! I hope to find you all in as much anticipation for the coming Autumn whether as I am.

I haven't done this yet, so I thought now might be a good time to take few lines to thank some of my faithful readers: _**EviColt, legolulu7, vampireluph,**_ ** _Fahdza,_** and _**AnimeLoverJS**_ you've all added some incredibly kind things to my reviews list, and I thank you for it. It's always lovely to see recurring names, it allows one the feeling that we're all writing this together, doesn't it? In a way, at least.

I also have to thank a new reviewer, _**krasivaya;**_ your compliments really hit home with me, you'll never picture the smile on my face! I especially enjoyed reading your point of view regarding that excerpt of Sterne's, I think you've got a mind for reading, and even a mind for writing with the way you worded your comments. As to your fretting over the ending of the piece, I wish I could give you guarantees; I'd like for every single character I write to have a happy ending, and I'm optimistic Louisa will have hers, but who really knows? It's a bit odd, but sometimes characters make decisions for themselves. We'll have to learn more about her before we can write anything in stone!

Thanks again to you all. You'll be hearing from me again soon :)

-Emily


	11. Epiphanies and Dinner-Engagements

**As the Starling Says ****Volume II**

 **Chapter Four**

* * *

"I'm certain I don't need to tell you how unwise it is to leave your possessions unattended on a public street," Sherlock watched Louisa twirl a small spoon through her cappuccino, separatin the foam on top of it into three equal sections.

"I wasn't overly concerned with the bike, you're right," she admitted, throwing the old, ugly contraption a regretful look. "That'll be twice in one night I've had to apologise."

"You mean to say you feel an apology is owed to the bicycle?"

She nodded her head morosely.

" _You_ with the whole inanimate objects trope," he muttered irritably. "Is it that you believe the more quirks you possess, the more interesting you become?"

He was mildly disappointed when her response lacked her usual biting return of wit, as she said only in a small voice, "I wasn't aware I was so filled to the brim with quirks." She focused on her spoon, destroying the sections of foam now and stirring the whole thing together.

Her brow crinkled, and her mouth turned down. For the first time in all their acquaintance Sherlock was beyond certain that he'd wounded Daly. Ironically enough, he hadn't even meant to; but there was nothing to do for it now, so he settled for a change in subject.

"How did you know to go to the dry-cleaner?"

"I doubt I can give an answer that would satisfy you," Louisa replied with no marked hesitation, but her spirits had clearly yet to elevate to what they had been; she'd abandoned her coffee and was now staring at the remnants of her croissant, using her finger to nudge them around the plate, this way and that. "I remembered Kaleigh mentioning the approximate location, so I decided to search the entire area. I assumed the bar wouldn't be public, but cleverly hidden. Looking for the pseudo-business was simple once I narrowed down the possibilities of what would suit its true purpose."

Silence prevailed now, both parties fully expecting the other to speak further. Nearly a minute passed before Sherlock finally ventured for a prompt. "Well? Go on."

"That's…" Louisa blinked a few times. "That's about it, really."

"You've hardly explained your process."

She sighed harshly through her nostrils. "Well I don't think I should have to, considering you wound up with the same results as I did. If you want a detailed synopsis you might as well consult your own endeavours."

"I'd like to hear your-"

"I don't much care what you'd like at this very moment, Sherlock," she interrupted, pure annoyance burning over her expression. "I've not any inclination to check my work with you when there are more important things to discuss."

"When you signed on to this case you were signing on to work-checking, I'm sorry to tell you." Was the pitiless reply.

Louisa pushed a frustrated hand through her curls and several seconds lapsed as she – with visible effort – strove to inject some calm into her tone. "I never explicitly agreed to anything. I've humoured you before, and I will again in the future, but tonight I would greatly appreciate if you'd just accept the fact that I found the place using my own, authentic faculties. I knew to go there because I _knew_ it."

"You realise," he began, brows raised. "That you might've finished your explanation by now if you'd just cooperated from the first."

"Well it's the principle of the matter now, isn't it?" she returned. "For the world, Sherlock, I cannot tell you that I know something without your determined nose following the trail, trying to sniff out a cheat. Is there really no part of you that trusts me?"

Holmes pursed his lips, clearly dissatisfied, but sans argument. In the end he said, "I'll ask at a better time."

He ignored the heavy way in which she rolled her eyes and fell to regarding her thoughtfully – regarding, in fact, the words she'd last spoken.

In truth, Sherlock felt more comfortable with Louisa's prowess for deduction than she would probably ever know; his desire for her explanations had ceased to boil down to disbelief, had actually morphed into nothing more than unbridled fascination for mapping her mind. He wanted to discover just how similar her brain really was to his own. There was no longer any doubt of her genius.

And, oddly enough, it had been a book of sketches, stolen from her during a choice moment of distracted attention, which wiped those doubts away.

* * *

Prior to the events of this Tuesday, which had thus far brought Louisa and Sherlock together at the same time to perform shaky – at best – reconnaissance on the side alley of Gamble & Peele, Sherlock spent the afternoon in the sitting room at Baker Street, rifling through the only possession of Louisa's he'd been able to get, and _keep_ , his hands on.

John was there as well, and his soft noises could be just heard through the relaxed layer of Sherlock's mind-matter. But the detective had some time ago forgotten what he'd even commissioned Watson to do.

Impatient again – as ever the emotion this little volume, poised in his left palm, seemed to instil – Holmes flipped to the back and found the portrait of the Late, Great Iskandar Ervin, which lacked the finishing touches the artist's hand had yet to give. This was the last drawing, of course, leaving twelve pages of blank nothing before the book abruptly ended; and this last drawing was the only proof the book gave that it had ever belonged to Louisa.

There was no signature penned on any of the others (though there were a few dates plastered intermittently on the sketches she must have deemed important enough to receive them – the criteria for _that_ seeming to Sherlock completely unpredictable) and Ervin's fleshy visage was the only thing Sherlock had personally witnessed her create. So, it seemed only natural that each time he perused the book – this instance marking the fourth viewing – that he should find the portrait, if only to make sure it was still there.

Any day Sherlock expected that Daly would turn up at his door, blazing with righteous indignation over her pilfered property, but she had apparently yet to realise its absence. The swap, performed the night Louisa had come to the flat to identify Ervin _was_ one of the best Holmes had ever pulled off (handing her the Lionsgeld yearbook as she was preparing to leave), but all the same, the more time that passed, the more surprised he was.

It was that simple thing, more than the content of the sketchbook, which cemented in his opinion that the calibre of her mind was not to be trifled with. Time and time again, as he turned his eyes over the sketches he found, he heard a sentence she'd spoken to him, while ill at the Red Light, echo back to him through time.

 _I know floundering when I see it, Mr Holmes_.

She was floundering too, then, and she didn't even know it. She was floundering, and her genius was suffocating, and _that_ was why she'd attached herself to him. The only questions which remained were _why_ she'd been put in his path at all, _why_ this case resonated so strongly with her, and _who_ she ultimately was. Was she really so human? But these ponderings always ended up filed away in his brain to bring up and re-examine on a later date.

Well, the drawings may have proved to be, as a whole, vastly uninteresting; and, like Ervin's portrait, a great deal of them went unfinished (various sketches of random, imagined mountain ranges and landscapes, sketches of people she'd captured during candid moments – like the surly old man reading the newspaper on a park bench or the couple sitting outside of a restaurant, both wholly engrossed by their mobiles as they ignored each other).

However, unfinished or completed, there was enthusiasm in every line drawn, a determination to catch all that she could see on paper that was almost _felt_ as he analysed them. It was clear from all of this that Louisa had begun to practice her art from a young age. It was clear that she missed nothing, ever, in the things she saw. It was clear that detail was vital to her.

Beyond this little fact – and the epiphany which had only been half-formed on that afternoon, solidified in the evening once he discovered her outside of Gamble and Peele – there was only one small drop of substance to be found in the many sketches Louisa had pulled out of her brain… Only one drawing provided for him that burst of inspiration – another epiphany, even – which had already been lying dormant in his subconscious, waiting for the proper trigger.

It was a sketch of a woman, sitting behind a desk with one hand on her computer mouse, the other massaging an aggravated brow. This picture was as uninteresting in as the rest, in terms of context; he knew nothing of the woman, save for the vague inclination that she was a receptionist of sorts in an office of sorts, and the expression she wore was that of a regular citizen charged by her eccentric boss to crack into a foreign database; he _cared_ even less for the woman, save for the fact that she reminded him of someone.

Yes, she resembled someone, this receptionist, with a slight cleft in her chin and a set of ears which rotated farther back on her head than an average person's. She looked like someone Sherlock hadn't thought of in some time – someone he shouldn't have forgotten about…

He'd first found this sketch the first time he looked through the book, on the night he'd taken it from her, but he hadn't truly noticed it until the Monday which preceded this afternoon. He'd gone to bed later that night and dreamt of the sketch, and all the next morning he'd wondered, with only a small percentage of his brain, who she was trying to call to mind. Which is, ultimately, what had made his crack the little black volume open for that fourth time, some minutes after Watson had arrived and been charged with his now forgotten job.

Sherlock sighed deeply now as he looked into the eyes of the sketched woman again.

"Who are you?"

"Sorry?"

Sherlock shut the book with a brusque snap. "Sorry?" he repeated at John, whose forehead crinkled as he looked up from Antoine Douglas' orphaned laptop.

"I missed what you said," John clarified.

"I don't follow." Mirroring, classic technique – always throwing off Watson and his like.

But, instead of shaking his head with a dull blink, as Sherlock fully expected him to do before returning to his assigned task, John's eyes narrowed. They seemed to zero in with a noise similar to that of the focusing lens of a security camera, onto the book in Sherlock's hands.

Holmes conjured a lie (not a very good one – but a detective does what he can when time is of the essence) as John spoke his sentence. "What've you got there?"

"Food diary – belonged to Douglas," he said quickly. "Constant narcissist, this one."

"Food diary," John repeated, and those two words expanded into a battalion of suspicious troops as they left his mouth.

Sherlock nodded patiently – such display of virtue serving only to fan the flames of Watson's dubiousness – but in the end John only shrugged and fell silent.

The quiet lasted only two minutes, however, before John then felt compelled to deliver a progress report. Leaning away from the computer with a frustrated sigh, he said, "Yeah, there's nothing here, mate. The only relatable emails I can find are those sent to Claressa Thomaston."

"Always be thorough, John," Sherlock reminded him, tone admonishing; if he'd said it once, he'd said it a thousand times. "We won't be at this much longer, anyway. Then it's off to Gamble and Peele."

"Where?"

"The dry-cleaner." Sherlock frowned deeply and stood. He took the sketchbook/food-diary to his desk and shut it safely in the top drawer. "I texted about it."

"I remember now," John ran a hand over the stubble growing across his lower cheeks (jowls which were becoming more defined every day, Sherlock noticed). "But all you sent was the name of the building. I thought you sent it to me by mistake. You do that a lot."

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock said, banishing the irrelevance with his decisive tone. "Just keep looking for another hour or so, then we'll go."

"Well, I can't," John replied, anxiety growing into visibility. It was clear he anticipated an argument. "I'm taking Mary to a show, then she's making dinner. But you never needed me for that sort of thing, anyway."

Sherlock had no reply for John. He stared for a moment at his hand, fingers curling to allow the examination of their nailbeds. Then he quickly decided to get back to work, pulling a plain beige storage bin from under his desk and rifling through the various folders kept inside it.

"You're upset," John observed, in what he probably fancied a keen tone.

"I'm not," Holmes insisted, neutrally enough, before selecting a folder. John watched with mounting tension as Sherlock shut the lid back onto the bin and retuned it under the desk.

Sherlock returned to a comfortable position in his armchair, flipping intently through the contents of his selected folder. Feeling the doctor's stare after nearly a minute, Sherlock looked up from his papers and said, "Emails, John."

"Alright then," John rolled his eyes and prepared to turn back to the screen… but his gaze was hooked back to Holmes as he noticed the abrupt change in the expression there. "What is it?" John demanded, perhaps too sharply; the slackened mouth and widened eyes of Sherlock's face was a nettling sight to one who'd grown as ready for dread as John.

"Your interview with Claressa Thomaston – you said it was pointless." Sherlock's eyes found Watson's, clear and yet far away. "Why was it pointless, John?"

"Well I thought… I'd told you already," John began, nonplussed but otherwise relieved. "She seemed to have an answer ready for every question before I could ask it. Either that, or she wouldn't answer a question at all."

"Right," Holmes nodded and said no more; _something_ had fired off in his brain with the mention of Antoine's emails to Thomaston – that same something hammering more violently against his skull as he now gazed at a picture of the woman, clipped to the small note she'd left on Douglas' fridge; now held in the folder Sherlock had taken from the storage bin. At this moment, however, there was no telling what that something was.

No doubt in the world that Thomaston was sitting on a wealth of information regarding her beloved Tony, which few in his private circle could claim to be privy to; but Sherlock had an intuition that whatever she was hiding could be more easily gotten at through other channels – a few backroads to travel, as it were.

So, it wasn't necessarily _Thomaston_ his brain was trying to emphasise for him, but she was certainly part of it. She was the _end_ of it, perhaps… But there was a link still missing in the chain.

After several minutes spent in furious pontification, Holmes became aware that the left hand upon his knee was scratching anxiously against the fabric covering it, felt that gnawing restlessness once again seize up his limbs.

He sprang to his feet and burst into a pace fiery enough to attract John's attention a third time. Before John could form his questions, Sherlock motioned his hands in the doctor's direction to quiet him; the gesture was more of a miming of strangulation as he hissed to Watson, " _Emails, John."_

"Right away, your Highness," John mumbled, but Sherlock had no care for those hurt feelings; once John was looking elsewhere, he resumed his pacing.

For a long time, he fought against the resurgence of that incessant knocking which had troubled him since his initial return to London, tried to quell his intelligence back into a state which he could control. He began to long for those days (which had not been so _very_ long ago, though the gap between Then and Now seemed a decade, at least) when he could focus his mind as easily as he could the lens of his personal microscope in the kitchen.

Then, the drawing Louisa had sketched of that receptionist swam back into his brackish channel of thought… But _why?_ They didn't resemble each other at all.

"They're all connected," Sherlock muttered aloud (by this time Watson knew better than to so much as break eye-contact with the screen of the laptop in front of him. " _How_ are they connected?"

He halted where he stood on the rug between Watson's chair and his own and planted both hands on either side of his cranium (merely an hour from now Louisa Daly would find herself in this exact pose – only seated – outside of the delicatessen). He clenched his eyes shut so forcefully that white blossoms grew behind the lids as though fed by richest sunlight.

Then, the moment the name popped up in his brain – simultaneously pouring from his lips in a pitch that was close to a shout – every other thought went cold, and still.

" _Patricia Cartwright!_ "

He was looking right at John now, but the doctor never returned the gaze. Sherlock sighed and picked his mobile up from the end-table he'd left it on, searching the woman's name on the internet, pulling up images.

Patricia Cartwright – a heart-shaped face with a peak in her hairline which fell slightly more to the left of her forehead, upwards-sloping nose and catlike eyes, hair so blonde that it was almost silver… a subtle cleft in her chin, and what some would call quite wonky ears. Those final two features are what had screamed at him from the portrait of the receptionist, but in all of it together, Cartwright (or, Mullins, as she'd gone back to the use of her maiden name once the divorce from Robert Cartwright was finalised) was the picture of Claressa Thomaston; they might have been related.

Though, it was more apt to say Claressa resembled Patricia rather than the other way around, considering she was significantly older than Thomaston, and had at least a decade on Douglas.

"Well, he certainly loved _you_ ," Sherlock spoke to the photograph of Mullins displayed on his phone, before swiping to the left. This one featured the woman with her now ex-husband, a barrel of a man with hard eyes and a harder mouth; known for a smashing directorial debut twenty years ago with the release of _Don't Fail Me Now._

"If you keep going on to yourself, I'll never be able to concentrate properly." John said now, sounding irate.

Sherlock strode over with a satisfied smirk and held the screen of the mobile in front of John's face, so he could see the epiphany.

"Who does she look like?" He asked.

John took the phone in his own hand, stretching it over a foot from his face and squinting in a manner which prompted Sherlock to advise, "You need a good pair of spectacles, Watson. Forget your pride and book an optometrist before your licence is seized."

John ignored the counsel, apparently engrossed with what he saw. "How could I miss it? I knew what Cartwright looks like."

"You should be asking why Cartwright never pursued a relationship with Douglas once her marriage ended," Sherlock said, speaking with renewed vigour. "There was a reason the affair died, and it wasn't Douglas's choice, as he had enough residual feelings to shack up with a younger model of her."

"So, we'll be talking to Thomaston again?"

Sherlock gestured vaguely. "Eventually. But I'll send myself on that errand, I think, when the time comes."

The implication of a job badly done was not lost on John. "I can't force people to tell me what they don't want."

"You can manipulate them… You can ask them questions in such a way they don't even know they're being questioned." Sherlock corrected immediately. "Which is all something you know, as I've seen you adopt these methods before."

This time John needed a beat to absorb the subtext – from disbelief rather than from a lack of understanding. "You're saying I didn't try very hard to make Claressa talk?"

Sherlock tilted his head, mouth turned in a way which seemed to silently speak his words for him: _did you?_

"She was as sealed shut as an occupied bomb-shelter," John cried. "I invite you to have a go, if you think you can do better."

"Well we've already established that I do plan to _have a go…_ " Here Sherlock trailed off for several seconds, and John was fooled into believing the matter could be sulkily dropped between them now. But, as usual, Sherlock had to sneak in his final slight. "And I _will_ do better, thank you."

"You're as pompous as a bloody prince, d'you know that?" John looked up at Sherlock with equal parts disdain and amazement.

"As it happens, I am descended on my paternal branch-"

"Shut _up_ , Sherlock, before I finally decide to kill you in your sleep." John's mouth stretched into a heavy scowl as he grappled towards moving this odious conversation along. "If you're not planning to contact Thomaston any time soon, I assume your next target is Patricia Cartwright?"

"Yes, but _she_ might actually prove herself to be an occupied bomb-shelter. It'll take some planning before I can root out a conversation with her."

"She'll not be easy to contact, either, unless you have Lestrade get involved; she's more than just a minor celebrity."

"I'll make it work." Sherlock said simply, and soon after this, the conversation died.

John made his excuses after another hour of fruitless searching, and departed the flat, leaving Sherlock to spend the remaining minutes until five o'clock learning everything he could about Cartwright/Mullins.

He digested every bit of information with special care, following trails which either led nowhere, or down a tunnel filled with dozens of directional choices. All this time he refused to allow his attention to be diverted, as it often wanted to be in these newer, detestable days. It was a challenging feat in the beginning, but at some point, he fell into an acceptable groove.

In fact, Sherlock discovered the time as nearly a quarter _past_ five, when he finally resurfaced and registered the passing of it.

He kept the multiple web-browsers he'd been using up as he shut his computer and shed his dressing gown. In less than two minutes his Belstaff was donned and he was making his way to Gamble and Peele's dry-cleaning.

* * *

"So, when would be a good time for me to stop by?" Louisa asked now, blowing on her coffee with a sanguine expression, as the earlier argument had been avoided.

"Stop by?" Holmes repeated, after swallowing a fair bit of his own drink, which had scalded his tongue and throat on the way down.

"Yes, stop by your flat."

"I don't care, really. Whenever you want – though it depends on my mood whether I'll let you up, and we've already established that unpredictability. I do wonder," he tried another sip – too soon. "why you _would_ stop by."

"Then you truly are thick," she smiled pleasantly as he sneered. "I want a look at all you have on Douglas. You're hoarding a cache of withheld information, no?"

"If any of it were _good_ , don't you think I'd have used it by now?"

"I cast no aspersions on your discerning eye, Sherlock, have no fear." She replied with deep gravity. Then she raised a hand, reaching with all due decorum of a Shakespearian actor delivering a soliloquy; and with the limb raised her dramatic tenor. "Never would I dream of besmirching such _beauteous_ art as thy brain – crafted by God himself – with words of discredit! Nay! Sir! May you not misinterpret my entreaty to serve as a blow to your great wit – your _incandescent_ genius – your fierce intellect – your _captivating_ noodle-"

"You're really not as funny as you think you are," Holmes intruded calmly, though still Louisa erupted into chortles of perfect mirth. "I mean that, Louisa – quite deeply."

She spoke between bouts of laughter that seemed almost painful to her. "I just… I kept expecting you to… stop me sooner," she was breathless, trying to subdue the spell of humour she'd flung herself under. "But you really held in there," Now she bit her lower lip to control her grin. The giggling ended soon after, and then she was adding with sincerity, "I'm quite proud of you, actually."

"Be serious," Sherlock snapped. "For a person who insists continuously on being included into complexities, you've spent a lot of time putting on various one-woman shows… and eating, of course." He inclined his head to the plate on the table between them.

"Not everyone can chug along on thirty calories a week, Sherlock," Louisa stated, with no intention of being shamed. "Moving along, though – tell me some of these complexities I don't already know… the more you talk, the less _I_ will."

"First, you ought to know about Claressa Thomaston," Sherlock began, outlining the relationship she'd shared with Douglas, the ultimate knowledge she was likely to have of the goings-on at those ridiculous parties – which she'd refused to share with Watson – and her resemblance to Patricia Mullins.

"That name rings a bell," Louisa muttered, once Mullins was mentioned.

"I've just said she's a famous actress."

"No, I mean, her name rings a _specific_ bell. I saw it, listed, somewhere odd…" she paused, tapping her index finger against her knee under the table.

It was uncommon for Louisa not to remember something she'd seen once she asked her brain, in direct terms, to display a snapshot back to her. The usual course for it was that the subject had been seen very quickly, or in her peripheral during a moment of relaxed attention, making the memory more likely to slither off into her subconscious.

And, unfortunately, when it came to dealing with her subconscious, Louisa was like a novice arctic fisher, throwing bait through a hole in obscuring ice; hoping to catch something while remaining completely ignorant as to the activities of the rushing waters below the frozen surface.

Sensing Sherlock's impatience, Louisa merely jotted a mental note to have a more thorough try later on and said, "If it's important, it'll come back to me. Why does it matter so much that Thomaston resembles her?"

"Douglas carried on a heavy affair with Mullins for five years. They were in love, and in the end – which came about two years ago – their relationship caused the divorce between Patricia and her husband. She returned to her maiden name with little public criticism, but still the affair with Antoine Douglas ended. I can only assume Patricia was the deciding vote in their separation, as he was sick enough over her loss to replace her with a look-alike."

"I don't see much significance in all this," Louisa confessed. "Douglas has had droves of public flings all over the city during the span of that affair, hasn't he? Can he really have been so in love with her, or is it more that he just likes a certain type of woman?"

"He liked _all_ women, as you've pointed out; but he was only ever attached emotionally to these two. Besides," Sherlock smirked crookedly. "Men who fancy themselves in love can just as easily fancy meaningless sex as harmless to a relationship. Both concepts require a certain degree of stupidity to believe in, after all."

"I'm not ignorant as to the ways of fickle men," Louisa allowed. "But how can you suppose Mullins was at peace with the whims of her boyfriend? She had to have known about them all, considering photographs were constantly in the papers."

"She puts forward such a proper personality, you're right about that… She hardly _seems_ the sort of woman who would ever remain with a man who couldn't be faithful to her, but – well, _she_ was married, wasn't she? That alone puts a crack in her moral foundation. Looking into her younger, more personal life, before all the fame, she was – in terms she would likely use herself – a free-spirit.

"In fact, there was a blog I found which told an intricate tale of a polyamorous relationship held between Mullins, a woman named Kimberley, and the author of the blog who called himself Peter. The site hasn't been updated since 2002, and the entry was tallied at only twenty-three total views, so it took some searching to come across it."

"Well, the integrity of this faceless blog-author can hardly be relied upon, can it? Now that she's famous, this past decade has probably seen tens of thousands of people writing for nothing more than wish-fulfilment."

"I doubt that this is the case here; the blog describes in great detail the university courses the author shared with Mullins, insight to her character and background which can only be vaguely defined in public interviews, all along with photographs of the three of them together. Also, he went into equal detail about the second woman, which made my objective of finding and contacting Kimberly Mason nearly effortless. She proved herself quite willing to corroborate the information provided by Peter, the writer."

"Did you contact the writer as well? He might've had more to give than he'd already published in his blog."

"No answer, yet, bit I'm still anticipating some return to my many messages." Sherlock said. "Back to the original point, I learned that Patricia Mullins was raised in a family of more exuberance than wealth, and it would appear that her parents' knack for putting on airs was passed along the genetic line. In Patricia's case, her airs were to hide the orientation of her romantic inclinations, as well as her lifestyle of hallucinogenic drugs and shaky devotion to Buddhism.

"I do believe, however, she held affection for Robert Cartwright which those who judge such matters would deem genuine. She was also in love with Antoine Douglas. One man was content with an arrangement that would provide him with a stable partner, while allowing the continuance of sexual freedom. The other, older, more distinguished – a man of tradition, by all accounts – would never consent to be one of two suitors; such a thing would have made Cartwright a cuckold in his own eyes, no matter his wife's fluid views of love. Mullins must have understood this about her husband, as it took her half a decade to confess the whole affair to him."

"You think she told her husband willingly?"

"Yes, I believe she'd hoped he would accept her, hoped that his love for her would trump his pride. This scenario would explain the overall amicability of the divorce. A generous alimony was awarded to Mullins, she was allowed to keep their London home, and the matter was settled without a single negative comment from Cartwright, regarding his ex-wife. I've often found that divorces over irrevocable differences tend to be the quietest, most resigned of them all." With his drink now at a tolerable temperature, Sherlock sipped it, pausing only briefly before continuing. "They renounced each other; a bitter outcome, but still clean, without burning rage or jealousy. Patricia giving up the last name (despite it being the one under which she'd gained fame), speaks to a heartbroken goodbye."

"Then why end things with Douglas? One would think she'd rely on him even more; plus, she might've been cast in a more forgiving light if she'd stuck by the relationship."

"Well that's the big one, isn't it?" Sherlock returned. "Perhaps Antoine turned out to be less steadfast in his love than he professed – but his seeking a relationship with a woman who so closely resembles Mullins makes this unlikely; it's also unlikely that Mullins would end an affair with Douglas over anything trivial, when she'd confessed the business to her husband only a month prior – no doubt with that hope of finding a solution in which they all three might live happily."

"So he'd done something that she couldn't forgive," Louisa continued Sherlock's train of thought with her own. "And you think that whatever it was relates to the business which got him killed."

"Clearly," Holmes responded, his tone bored, and Louisa's expression soured.

She let it pass, saying, "D'you think she might've had anything to do with his death? Perhaps she told someone…"

"No, I would be shocked if either Cartwright or Mullins were directly involved at all."

"This case," Louisa said, blowing an amazed sigh from her lips. "It truly is one centimetre at a time, isn't it?"

"So it seems," Holmes said thoughtfully, and with a frown – but one which he was able to shake off with relative ease.

"You said john went to speak with Claressa Thomaston, didn't you?" Louisa changed the subject and Sherlock nodded. "Did he ever ask whether Douglas was faithful to her?"

"Watson inquired if the relationship was exclusive, yes; Thomaston's reply was that if Douglas dated other women, she was unaware of it."

"If Mullins knew, Thomaston must have; the flings were openly discussed until he died."

"She gave John to understand that reporters publishing those stories were simply out to make a profit and maintain viewership."

Louisa put her chin in her hand, looking pensive but speaking alertly. "She said that exactly?"

"Not exactly; the language she used – if Watson's account can be in any way counted on – was cleverly constructed, strategically ambiguous in areas where it would be best for her. Her exact phrasing was that she kept her relationship below the radar because Douglas was always in the papers for one reason or another; she wanted to avoid publicity. Here she subtly assumed ignorance of the truth in the papers, aided by flat-out distrust of the media."

"Well she was a theatre actress, and she writes now, yes?" Louisa said. "She's probably got a fair bit of practice in speaking through subtext."

"More than that, Claressa Thomaston is expecting more questions to be asked of her," Holmes added, grave lines forming at his downturned lips. "She's attempting to stay one step ahead."

Whatever he'd said to John in his moment of principled antagonising, Sherlock knew Thomaston was too smart – and too safe – to allow even a fraction of the information she had into the open air.

Almost to himself, he muttered, " _She_ knows more than Mullins ever will, I'm certain of it."

"Then interview them both," Louisa suggested unhelpfully. "Or just bypass Mullins for now; if Thomaston has more intel, shouldn't you go to her first?"

"I _need_ to speak with Mullins first… I have no ammunition to make Thomaston talk." Sherlock said quickly, irritably. "She won't say a thing until she's forced to."

"What exactly does _that_ mean?" Louisa wondered, disliking his choice of words. "You're planning to threaten her, or something?"

Sherlock took a moment to weigh her manner, settling a hard look at her. "How would anyone ever get answers to really dangerous questions, if they haven't got an arsenal of manipulation tactics?" He gave Louisa less than a second to respond before plunging into a speech of sorts, growing slightly more heated as he went. "People who hide what they know they should share invite in the possibility of being made afraid. That's all they ever are, anyway – afraid, for their own skin. If I have to use that fear for the greater good, then so be it; Thomaston would be in no danger from me – real or fabricated – if she gave up obstructing the truth. So, yes, in answer to your question, a threat _may_ be what it takes to disarm her, and take was we require to _move on."_

He gave a few rough breaths through his nostrils, but otherwise appeared finished. After a moment the tension melted from his shoulders and Louisa pressed her lips together, hiding her smile; clearly Holmes had tired long ago of people questioning his moral motivations.

"Alright," she said. "How do you plan to blackmail her?"

"Obviously I don't know yet. I haven't spoken with Mullins, have I?"

"I mean, what would be ideal? You must have _some_ theories as to what Mullins could tell you – how it'll relate to Claressa."

"Perhaps I can lead Thomaston to believe I know more than I do – granting Mullins sheds some light on the business Douglas was involved in. Perhaps I can… make her think that Douglas himself willingly passed along this information, that he implicated Thomaston's involvement with whatever he'd done to break this… club-code. If that pans out, she may work rather hard to clear herself, but she won't be able to do that without genuine cooperation."

"And where do we stand on the missing tie-clip?" Louisa inquired, swinging right out of the Douglas and into the Ervin. "When are we going to look for that?"

"I've been waiting for Lestrade to make the time for a trip to Liverpool," Holmes replied. "I can't get inside the flat without his clearance, but he's geared to go tomorrow. And, I'm sure I don't need to make this clear, but-"

"If Lestrade is going, I won't be." Louisa nodded solemnly.

"Right," Sherlock nodded as well, without feeling in the least solemn about it. "I've also received confirmation of Ervin's having an unopened safety-deposit account in that county, Merseyside; I'm slowly rooting out possibilities for hiding-places, as I feel it's more likely the ornament cannot be found in his home. Despite a drop of second-guessing, I'm certain my inspection of the place was thorough."

"You might have seen it, and not recognised it for what it was."

"I would have," Holmes insisted, somewhat icily. "From the murder of Douglas, I thought it signifying that his watch and tie-clip were missing; naturally I kept this in mind while searching Ervin's things."

"I'm sure you did, I'm sorry." She held up her hands. "That wasn't intended as a dig, I'm just so _excited_."

"We've hardly made any progress," Sherlock replied, with all his wonted gloom. "What's there to be so excited about?"

Louisa fixed him with a critical stare. "This attitude of yours is awful, I want you to know that." She reached over, shaking him bracingly by the shoulder in the same manner she'd used countless times on Maggie to wake up the girl's mind. "You're missing it all! Just think how much more we know today than we did last week, Sherlock. I get I don't know you all that well, but I'd have reckoned a case like this is exactly what you live for; the puzzles that are leagues-at-a-time can hardly be all that stimulating."

She smiled at him, and he squinted back at her as though her expression were indicative of her mentally plotting his imminent demise.

And then, she was rolling her eyes as he asked, for the second time, "How did you find the dry-cleaner? Just tell me."

"No."

"But-"

"How did _you_ know?" She interrupted. "Again, I'll tell you: reference your own process and you'll find a close twin to my own."

"Constant insolence – that's all you ever give me."

"You know, when you use such terms as 'insolence' when describing my treatment of you, you seem to be implying that I am somehow your subordinate… which is just _insane_ , I know," she feigned a thoughtful, innocent expression. "considering I found the place before you."

Sherlock's mouth puckered, and his gaze dawdled to the lamppost at the edge of the pavement. "I knew since last night to go there."

She grinned and nodded slowly, indulgently. "Of course you did. Well, then, forget everything I've said."

"I asked a simple question."

" _Anyway_ ," Louisa said pointedly, breezing right over that topic and starting a new one. "What would I even begin to look for, once I get underneath to the cocktail bar?"

Sherlock appeared nonplussed. " _I_ would take two trips inside: the first for reconnaissance, the second to act on the information gained from the first. I know to look for older men with young girls, but I suspect the majority of the bar's patronage comes from such a demographic; I'll need to see these men to know them."

" _You'll_ never get inside."

"And you will?"

"Yes," Louisa turned her gaze over Sherlock's shoulder, remembering the moment she realised what the dry-cleaner truly was; if she could do _that_ , she could do anything. "I will."

"You'll undoubtedly need a man to gain access."

"I can get a man much more easily than you can get a girl – which you would likewise need." Louisa pointed out, annoyance flaring dully.

Sherlock quirked a brow and tilted his head to the side, regarding her silently for a few beats. Then, he said, "Well, you're a girl. And you're quite young – could pass for younger."

"Astute observation, Sherlock, but one which I've already analysed; it'll be how I snag me a fella."

"I'm pointing out that we might as well work together." Holmes said matter-of-factly. "It would be most ideal in the sense we could each be certain that you don't end up in the company of a potential rapist, nor I in that of a drugged-up wallet-thief… Though, now that I reflect I _do_ know a homeless woman who would carry on in silliness far less than you would."

Calmly she said, "Alright, Sherlock… How d'you suppose you'll get inside without immediately being recognised? Even if you weren't well-known by London in general, the sort of people who own the business you're planning to invade would smell you coming before you hit the entrance."

" _Infiltrate_ is the word you're looking for, and I will do so through one simple solution," here he paused, no doubt for dramatic effect. "I won't look like myself."

Louisa chuckled. "You're telling me you've got a chest full of fake beards and eye-patches in that dingy flat of yours? Are you going to slap on a fat suit and go by the name Barney, by chance?"

"Not in _that_ fashion, but incognito is the essential idea." Sherlock sniffed, shoulders held to haughty position. "I happen to consider myself a master of the art of disguise."

Louisa genuinely at a loss for anything else to say, mumbled "Apologies," with every effort to keep from laughing at him.

"Not at all," Sherlock inclined his head, the proper gentleman that he was. "To continue, I've already assumed access to this establishment will require membership, which will in turn require that the owner has an identity to verify which is not my own. But, sufficient records and a new name should be child's play for Mycroft to conjure."

"What's Mycroft?" Louisa asked, in her mind picturing some unheard-of computer software which could manufacture such things as Sherlock needed.

"Not _what –_ who." He replied, back again to a state of perplexity. "Mycroft is my brother."

"I _knew_ you had a brother," Louisa's fist became a gavel against the table-top to declare her genius. "He's older, isn't he? And smarter. You _abhor_ him, I'd bet almost anything."

For the moment Sherlock ignored her teasing (though her remarks would ignite his prideful feelings much later on, when he finally remembered them) and, appearing as confused as she had yet to see him, he asked, "Have you truly never met him?"

Such was a question perfectly tailored to raise Louisa's level of confusion to quite match his own. "If you've never introduced me to him, how would we have met? Unless, of course, he's a fellow server at the Red Light I've managed to overlook these past four months."

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock snapped, but only half-heartedly. He was still primarily engrossed with his own track of mind (which wondered veraciously why Mycroft had avoided intercepting Louisa's attention this past month, when it took mere days for him to kidnap Watson). Scooting his chair closer to the table so that his diaphragm was nearly squeezed against it, he put his palms together and inclined his fingertips towards her, speaking with a pressing tone. "Perhaps you did not know him – has any strange man put himself into contact with you since we met? His express purpose would have been to compensate you for regular updates about me – my daily habits, how I spend my time… He would have offered you money?"

"You've seriously misjudged my character if you believe any such occurrence should pass without my immediately informing you of it." Louisa replied, a proud note to her voice that even she could hear. "Besides, I think I would know any brother of yours the moment I set eyes on him."

"Perhaps you would," Holmes allowed, but still the suspicion was evident in his expression. "Perhaps you would have also been moved to accept the bribe."

"Well, your brother's rich, isn't he?"

Sherlock inclined his head.

"Then obviously I would take the bribe. I'd split it with you, and we'd have a good laugh at his expense." She laughed now, in fact, and Sherlock smirked. "He'd deserve it, wouldn't he? What business is it of his how you live your life? Why does he even care so much?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Whichever force spurned Mycroft into existence alone knows what Mycroft wants."

"But to demand to know such detail as your daily habits… What compels him to keep such a watchful eye on you?"

Holmes shrugged again – this movement as noncommittal as the first – but Louisa's own eye took on that analytical quality.

Thoughtfully, she asked, "Are you a criminal or something?"

"Or something," Sherlock said darkly – an inflection calculated to warn off further pursuit of the subject.

He was saved from Louisa's wonted stubbornness by the shrill ringing of his mobile. He merely glanced at the screen to ascertain who was phoning, before snubbing the call and returning the device to the table.

"Why anyone who professes to know me well would still choose to call before texting is beyond me."

"Perhaps he knows you won't answer a text," Louisa supplied, citing her own suppositions from earlier in the evening. "It is John calling on your friendship, isn't it?"

"Calling on my friendship?" Holmes replied mockingly. "I sense that this phrasing is meant to mean more to me than it does."

"It's _meant_ to be a hint: you're a bad friend if you don't call him back, considering you're not overpoweringly busy, and it may be important."

The phone began to ring again, and Louisa smiled mildly at the crying device. Holmes still silenced the call, same as before, but at least this time he hesitated for a solid beat.

"I'm sure if it were inconsequential, he _would_ text," Louisa pointed out. "At least see what he wants."

"I already know what he wants."

"Oh, really? Well then, please, astound me with your skill of premonition."

"He wants to invite me over for dinner."

"That _incorrigible_ ne'er-do-well," Louisa said vehemently. "What better way to punish him than to answer his call?"

"I will do no such thing."

The phone rang a third time, allowing Sherlock the chance to prove the substance of his declaration.

"He's not ceaselessly calling just to invite you to dinner," Louisa said, now verging on fretful. "Answer it, please."

Yet again Sherlock silenced the ringing, and once the noise level returned to that of general street-sounds the two stared at each other with equal amounts of agitation, until the phone rang a fourth time.

"Answer it."

"No."

Both sets of eyes flicked to the phone; Sherlock's right hand and Louisa's left both snatched for the thing. Louisa managed to be faster than Sherlock, however, and before she swiped her finger over the green dot that would answer the call, she smiled sweetly at Sherlock and said, "Shall I just do it, then?"

"Don't," Holmes made a desperate grab for the device, which Louisa held out of his reach. Backing her chair far enough away from the table that Sherlock would need to lunge over it to get at her, she answered the call.

"Good evening, John Watson," She greeted with a tone which bordered on jovial. "How are you?"

"Well, I'm fine," he sounded as surprised as Louisa expected. "You're with Sherlock, then?"

"I am, though it appears he is much too self-absorbed to answer your call himself. May I pass along a message?"

"Actually, you could put on the speaker."

"Ooh, trap him into the conversation – _good_ plan, John." To Sherlock she said, "You can either sit here and listen to what your friend has to say, or you can walk away and leave me with your mobile – to which, I might point out- I recall the password perfectly."

"You don't-"

"436982," Louisa rattled off the numbers with pride. "I sincerely doubt you had the foresight to change it, considering how many times you've already underestimated my memory."

"So… the speaker?" John said meekly, reminding Louisa of his role as audience-member.

"Hang in there, Watson, we're under negotiation." Louisa spoke into the receiver with all the seriousness of a fighter-pilot communicating with her wingman.

Sherlock rose to his feet. "Keep the phone; you'll find countless things of interest, but nothing that can be used against me."

"Aside from the contact information of one Mycroft Holmes?" she lifted her voice to a pitch of perfect innocence. "If Big-Brother is half so uptight as you are, I imagine a message containing kinky sexual confessions would quite shock him… I think I could easily replicate your prose…"

Sherlock's complexion changed colour immediately; he looked into Louisa's eyes for any hint of the bluff, and found nothing but empty, pine-green pits.

Resisting the urge to tackle her, Sherlock sat down once more with a clenched jaw.

Louisa pressed the speaker on with a triumphant finger. "Alright, John, he's ready whenever you are."

"Listen, Sherlock," John began, stumbling through a sentence that had clearly been rehearsed. "Mary's been cooking this last hour, and as always she's made too much for two people…"

"I told you," Holmes hissed to Louisa as John carried on, not hearing.

"So, I thought you wouldn't mind coming round for dinner?"

"I'm busy John, but thank-you," was the terse reply. "I need to get in touch with Mycroft tonight, and you know what that does to my state of mind."

"You could always call him after dinner. I imagine he keeps late hours, like you." Louisa suggested, and Sherlock, who'd already been glaring at her with searing antipathy, could only tighten his frown; she pretended not to notice. "In fact, you'll probably have better odds of catching him while he's free, if you wait."

"I wonder why I keep hearing your input," Holmes said with poorly-constructed calmness. "When this situation could not involve you any less."

"She who holdeth the mobile, must guideth the sheep-" here she tilted the phone towards the detective, indicating him as the animal in this scenario. "To justifiable dinner-engagements."

John's chuckle created static on his end of the line. "Yeah, plus, she's invited."

Louisa pointed at her own chest with gleeful disbelief, as though Watson were there to witness it; and only when he refrained from answering did she convert the gesture into words. " _I'm_ invited?"

"Sure, why not?" John said, as Sherlock shook his head miserably at the table. "It'll be great. Mary's always on me, anyway, about not having more friends to introduce her to."

"You don't think it would be rude for me to just show up?" Louisa asked.

She wouldn't, by any means, pass up the chance to meet Mary, find out what she looked like and what form her personality would take, unless, of course, taking that opportunity could be construed as impolite.

"It would be terribly ill-bred, best not to even consider it," Sherlock interjected, as curtly as a Jane Austen antagonist.

"Louisa, you're more than welcome here. You deserve a nice meal anyway, for all your help."

"She's not actually _done_ much though, has she?" Holmes said.

"Anyway," John said, choosing wisely to let Sherlock's petulant dig slide, "You don't have to come, mate, do whatever you want; but Louisa, feel free to come alone, if you want. With or without Sherlock, your company would be appreciated."

"Thank-you, John… I'll think about it."

With only the exchange of goodbyes (in which Sherlock refused to take part) Louisa ended the call and held the phone out for the detective. She fully expected him to snatch it from her hand; and though he did not, it was clear he very much wanted to.

He pocketed the thing, looking at her sullenly. "Judas," He accused.

Louisa, following in John's sensible footsteps, ignored this. "Do you really intend to avoid him forever?"

"I'm not avoiding anyone, at the moment… aside from the press."

"Please, Sherlock, from that conversation alone I can see that John's asked you to meet Mary several times. I don't know _why_ you're avoiding him, but we both know that's what's going on here."

Absolute silence was the only return Sherlock deemed fit to give. Louisa allowed him a full minute to change his mind, before charging forward, guns blazing.

"Alright, you got me, I _do_ know why you're avoiding him: you're jealous." Holden snorted down at his crossed legs. "You're jealous of Mary, because you're afraid she's stealing away your only friend."

Still, silence.

"You know what? You're a hypocrite, Sherlock Holmes; all you ever say is how stubborn I am, and here you are, getting in your own way." When he refused to meet her eye she shook her head in frustration. "But, as I can't possibly be telling you things you don't already know, I'm letting it go. It'll just burn me up."

"Wise choice," Holmes found a response at last, his tone distant.

"For Heaven's sake, Sherlock – if nothing else, use your logic!"

"Got a second wind, have you?" He sneered, his gaze casting itself everywhere but right at her.

"You know I'm right. You would tell anyone else the same thing – in the unlikely even that you should ever advise someone on a subject unrelated to mental acuity." Now he did look at her, his expression full of haughty disdain she had no care for. "You would say that logic is King, wouldn't you? So where's the logic in prolonging the inevitable? Plus, I'll be there, and I make an excellent buffer; ask anyone."

"Don't say another word, for _God's_ sake." Holmes commanded.

Yet, he was somewhat surprised when she actually complied. She was expectant, yes (which in itself was extremely irksome), but no farther sentence passed her lips.

For a time, the two sat in the silence Sherlock had so desperately craved, thinking vastly different thoughts on the same subject. Twice, Sherlock broke into movements so abrupt that Louisa was sure he was preparing to leave her there in his typical fashion – but they proved to be for nothing more than to shift into more suitable positions. After nearly ten minutes spent in this way, he was still there.

"What's the verdict, Sherlock?" Louisa asked, unwilling to allow the stasis he clearly aimed to perpetuate for the rest of the evening.

Now, he did stand. "I suppose I'll get it over with."

" _Brilliant._ " Louisa resisted the urge to pump her fist in the air, instinctively knowing that to do so would push Holmes over the edge. She busied her hands by hurrying her mobile from her pocket. "I'll just phone John for the address…"

"I already know it."

"Oh, you've been there before?"

"Clearly not."

"Then… how do you know-" He slid a flat look straight into her eyes and she shook her head at herself. "Right, stupid question. Well, what is it, then?"

"You'll hear it when I tell the cabbie we're going to hail." He plucked his scarf from the back of his chair and wound it over his neck.

"I've got my bike, remember?"

"Ah, yes…" he trailed off, and Louisa read his expression the moment it changed.

"I'll be right behind you, Sherlock. Since you'll be in traffic I may even get there before you, and if I'm not, you'll spend no more than five minutes alone with them."

" _That_ was the farthest thing from my mind," Holmes assured her. It was so horrid an attempt at a lie that he quickly segued into a recitation of the address before she could notice it, preferring to avoid one of her trademark knowing looks.

Then he was gone, without so much as a goodbye; Louisa watched him for a few moments as he travelled down the footpath beyond the gate of the delicatessen, feeling the sweet bloom of success… and, honestly, feeling quite proud of Sherlock's ability to be reasoned with.

He was growing more accustomed to her with every hour they spent in one another's company. And although she knew better than to think Sherlock would ever audibly call her his friend, Louisa started her journey with the warm conviction that he knew as well as she, that the mutual esteem did not need to be declared aloud to exist.

* * *

It took over twenty minutes for Louisa to arrive at Mary's home, which lay so deeply within an edge of the city Louisa had yet to visit, that she had to open her Maps application on her mobile to search the address Sherlock had given her.

However, the journey was pleasant. Though the night was cold enough to freeze the tip of her nose and lash her cheeks to a redness which felt as though it would be permanent in its urgency; though her legs grew exhausted less than halfway through the trip (as the result of the hour she'd spent circulating London in the quest for Gamble & Peele); as her face went numb and the ache in her muscles renewed, she grew to quite like it.

The sensations reminded her of days long passed… days she thought she would never miss.

Beyond that, the added physical pressure allowed her the cathartic illusion that she was pushing all the fury and self-beratement (that mutated mixture of emotion born from ignored wistfulness and acknowledged – yet unreturned – longing for the warmth Family had once given her) out of her body through her toes. With every rotation of the pedals she forced, she let a burst of air through her lips, until she was little more than a boiler, with a faithful attendant to turn the gauge and release the steam compressing inside her. She wasn't crying… she couldn't cry, not a second time – not ever again.

This was the next best thing.

It took over twenty minutes, yes, but when Louisa did finally pull in front of Mary's house, as she dismounted her bike she felt more stabilised than she had in ages.

Still, she took her time to dawdle up the paving stones which led to the front step, allowing more than a cursory glance at the state of Mary's garden.

The house was just what it ought to have been for a sensible physician in her thirties (John struck her as the sort of man who would settle down with a woman slightly younger than he) with beige sliding and burgundy shutters at the windows of both floors. There were splashed of Mary's personality to be found as well; a certain careless whimsy, for instance, could be seen in the manner in which Mary had tended to her rose bushes.

They were evenly dispersed on either side of the steps, but only the plants to the left were covered with burlap cloth, tied at the stamen to keep the cold from biting the roses. Apparently, the task of protecting the bushes Mary had painstakingly brought to bloom proved too ambitious for her. And, by the state of decay on the right-hand plants, the project had been abandoned weeks ago.

Traversing the steps and ringing the doorbell, Louisa smiled, reminded of her mother.

Briony Daly would _never_ have left her roses to wither, and she would instantly have formed a negative opinion of Mary if she'd been greeted by the sight which so amused Louisa… But still, it was gardening Louisa thought of now, and gardening would always bring to mind that heavenly, nurturing facet her mother had sometimes worn.

After waiting an appropriate minute, Louisa rang the bell again, and then the silhouette unmistakable as John's began to take hazy form behind the smoky glass of the front door.

As he opened that door for Louisa, she noted he looked puzzled to see her there.

"I really didn't think you'd come."

"Oh, should I not have?" Louisa said hurriedly, realising then that she'd never bothered to call John, to inform him of the change of mind. "I'm sorry, I didn't even think-"

"No, no, I'm pleased." John, recovered now from his befuddlement, smiled. "You're timing is perfect, actually. Dinner should be ready soon."

He stepped aside to let her in the foyer.

It was tastefully decorated round the most prominent features: a cut-glass mirror framed in minimally-carved teak, a willow wood accent table supporting a bonsai tree pruned into a whirlwind, and a handsome staircase with a shelf built into it. Upon examination the books housed here ranged from photography and modern art, to anatomy and physiology.

It would stick in Louisa's memory as the foyer all foyers should strive to be.

John took Louisa's coat as she removed it, then her scarf. "Sorry I'm not well-dressed," She said. "I was just off work when I ran into Sherlock."

"You're not really worried that we'd care, are you?" John chuckled. "I greet the postman in my pants by accident I'd say… I dunno, twice every month?"

Louisa smiled, reminding herself not to judge this nice doctor.

A John led the way into the kitchen, Louisa said, "I suppose Sherlock hasn't made it yet."

John stopped at the counter, turned to face her slowly, as though stunned.

"Is he coming, then?"

"Yes, he said he was," Louisa craned her neck, looking past John into the sitting room that was just visible through a well-lit passage, wondering where Mary was. "I'm not sure what's taking him."

"He's not going to show," John assured her, his tone absolute.

At last Mary's voice was heard; the woman herself was revealed not long after, coming through the passage as she spoke. "We're out of the good soap… Oh, hello!"

With short and soft yellow curls, prominent eyes the shade of forget-me-nots, and a kindly sloping chin, Mary was all Louisa had pictured her as. She kissed Louisa's cheek as John, apparently feeling no need for formal introductions, launched a question to his girlfriend. "Did you know Sherlock _said_ he was going to stop by?"

"How would I know that?" Mary responded, zipping to an overhead cabinet in the quest for more plates. "Did I miss one of his many texts again?"

"The question was meant to start conversation," John said, hurrying along to his next subtle complaint. "But as he hasn't actually shown up yet, I doubt he will."

The doctor's aloof countenance did nothing to aid him in his endeavour to disguise his bait; both women could easily see John wanted nothing more than to be refuted.

"Have you washed your hands?" Mary inquired instead, most likely holding out on John for her own entertainment.

"I have," his sulky response earned Mary's grin.

"Well good," she said. "Also, I wouldn't be at all surprised if Sherlock were outside now, as we speak."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well he can't have been very far behind Louisa."

"So, you're of the mind that he's out there taking in the stars?" John said, sarcasm strong.

"Perhaps looking for a gnome to kick over," Louisa added, smirking.

"Have a look for yourself." Mary suggested, nodding her head towards the foyer. "And while you're busy proving me a genius, I'll be getting through the finishing touches in here."

She turned for the oven as John turned for the foyer. Louisa followed the latter, more interested in finding out the truth than watching Mary garnish the salmon she pulled from the oven (which smelled vibrantly of rosemary and coriander).

John made it to the only window in the foyer which overlooked the front garden and Louisa found she had to wait quite a bit longer than she would have reckoned for her chance to look through; for forty-seven seconds (she timed him) he stood, peering through a slit in the blinds he created with his right index finger… And though she couldn't see his expression, the sentence he muttered just before stepping aside, was dumbfounded.

"He's coming up the steps."

Louisa took her turn now, and she smiled at the image of Holmes trudging slowly up the stairs, as though nine kilos of flour were strapped to his shoulders in a sack.

Up till then, Sherlock was unaware that he was being watched; but as his right foot hit the topmost step, his peripheral was jerked towards that window. Through the slit in the blinds Louisa's green eyes blinked at him in surprise, and as the lifted section fell to obscure them from view, he was just able to hear a small squeak of panic.

He sighed – an action that seemed to come from deep in his abdomen.

This, would be torture.


End file.
